


North By Northwest

by germanystuck



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: AU, Character Death, Detective Parody, Gen, M/M, Multi, Murder/Mentions of Organized Crime
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2017-12-22 16:29:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 35,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/915445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/germanystuck/pseuds/germanystuck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was one of those storybook dark and stormy nights in the city of New York. The sort of nights that make you particularly inclined to lose your thoughts while staring at the rain dripping against your window. Or perhaps at your half-empty glass of bourbon as you wait for your cigarette to flicker out. To be honest, I wouldn’t know. No one likes to hear about a German immigrant with too much time on his hands, and too much alcohol in his system.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Human AU with a Detective/Noir parody. GerIta. First Person Narration by Ludwig. Human names used. Features both America and fem! America as siblings. Will be true to it's rating later on. Please enjoy!

           It was one of those storybook dark and stormy nights in the city of New York. The sort of nights that make you particularly inclined to lose your thoughts while staring at the rain dripping against your window. Or perhaps at your half-empty glass of bourbon as you wait for your cigarette to flicker out. To be honest, I wouldn’t know. No one likes to hear about a German immigrant with too much time on his hands, and too much alcohol in his system.

           Of course, boozehounds seem to be rising in number, especially around this part of New York. People too poor to eat a good meal down cheap liquor instead. Can’t imagine what they would think of me back in Germany if I took that up. And I’ve got a brother to look after. A brother who thinks I’m too much of a daisy to handle factory work, but a brother nonetheless.

           Besides, the only reason we’ve got a decent place to stay is because of the Jones’. Managed to scrounge an apartment space for us above their diner, so long as we pay rent when we can and stay out of trouble. I can’t bring in most of the rent myself because of Gilbert’s refusal, but I manage to give Mrs. Jones a hand with her baking, and she appreciates that just fine. I balance out the checkbook for the diner too, as Mr. Jones swears up and down he isn’t so good with math.

           There’s also another way I make a little bit of cash on the side, but it’s nothing Mrs. Jones nor my brother would like to hear. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a bootlegger or some sort of gunman for the mafia. I do what most folks around here would call “private investigating”, but the most a young kid like me can get are lost pets, nicked jewelry, things like that. Wasn’t my idea, by the by, and I’ll get hell from Mrs. Jones if she ever finds out what I’m doing, but Amelia Jones is one stubborn girl. Said she was getting bored just waitressing all the time, and she noticed how good I am at finding things around the house, so here we are.

           To be honest, they’re just a messy family, and I’m just good at organizing, but I don’t want to argue with her. She’s a tougher nut than her brother, and Alfred would fly off the handle if he ever found out I’m toting his kid sister around the alleys of New York City looking for missing dogs.

           The lights out on the street are flickering again, now that I notice, stretching from my seat at the desk. I’ve been counting funds for what feels like hours, yet I can’t quite tell how late it is by the sky. The clock we brought from home sits near the window, and I notice it’s been about two hours past supper. A few more hours and Gilbert would be home.

           Which was why the knock at the door was unexpected, and frankly, I’m glad no one’s in this room to see me jump in my seat. “Come in,” I call, shuffling my papers just in the case that it’s Mr. Jones wanting to see my progress.

           It isn’t, and I expect this would be the part of those new detective novels where the narrator describes a “bombshell blonde” slinking into their office, her face covered by the shadows in the room. Smoke from their cigarette rises, and in one puff, a sultry whisper emerges from their lips.

           This is reality, however, and instead, I’m face to face with Alfred F. Jones, blonde, but tragically far from a “bombshell”, and the only smoke in the room is the stench from his work clothes. I eye the grease stains on his apron wearily. He obviously had clean up duty at the diner and didn’t think to clean himself up before traveling to my apartment. Perhaps his greasy fingerprints on my door handle could be used for practice, I think, gritting my teeth at the idea of a slippery knob.

           “Lud!” he says, as if pronouncing the remaining three letters of my name is a struggle for him, “Can’t be healthy to stay caged up in this room all day. Have you moved this week?”

           I open my mouth to retort, but my peripheral vision catches the several empty Coke bottles on the floor beside my chair. I could still make an argument, really, as Alfred isn’t the brightest bulb in the box, but eventually I’d have to remove myself from this chair, and God knows those bottles are coming with me. Instead, I change the subject. “Have you washed the grease out of your hair this week?”

           Alfred’s lips curve upwards, “Look who’s talking. I don’t think I’ve seen your hair any other way.”

           He’s got a point, and I offer a smile. Not a kind one, mind you. “It’s Pomade. Tell me, what brand are you using? Hamburger Grease?”

           I’m sure he would have offered up a comment had my door not swung into his back, but thankfully Amelia has the sense to interrupt him. Or rather the timing. Either way, Alfred was currently hunched over and wheezing, and that was perfectly alright with me.

    “Lud!” Clearly the entire Jones family had issues with pronouncing Ludwig.

    Amelia is remarkably like her brother in looks. Blonde hair, blue eyes, a round face, a wide smile. The only differences were the curls that bounced against her cheeks, the head of height between her and Alfred, and the few years that separated them. Amelia was three years Alfred’s junior, making her sixteen, but she surely doesn’t act it. At least, not around me. Alfred always makes jabs at her about hanging around me so often, and to be honest, I can’t imagine why she does it. It isn’t like I’m one of her school playmates, and I’m four years her senior.

    Regardless, Amelia doesn’t mind dragging me around the dirtiest alleys in New York City. Says it’s a sign of friendship that we can do these sorts of things together. I don’t know about that.

    Amelia’s hands thunk onto my desk, rattling my near-empty bottle of Coke. As per usual, her nose is inches away from my own when she sings, “We’ve got a case!”   

    I shoot a glance at Alfred, still nursing his back. He’s heard what Amelia said, but I don’t think it’s processed yet. Amelia notices my gaze, and I can see the tell-tale tightening in her shoulders. I cough. “A case of what?”

    “Yeah, ‘Melia.” Alfred says, giving the both of us a dirty look, which, quite frankly, I don’t deserve, “Case of what?”

    She bites at her lip, looking at me for the answer. I shrug my shoulders slightly. “Case of flour?” Amelia tries, looking sheepish.

    Alfred’s eyes narrowed further. Perhaps it was the lighting in here. Or, perhaps, he was finally catching on to Amelia and I. Either way, there was only one lamp in here. Sort of claustrophobic really.

    “What are you two up to?” Alfred has the sense to draw himself back up and cross his arms.

    If I didn’t know Alfred for what he was, I’d be hot under the collar at that look. A typical elder-brother glare that I’ve only seen from Gilbert twice in my life. Neither times for good reason. It isn’t my fault I’d rather clean than hang around downtown.

    Amelia’s feet shuffle, a lip pout growing. She knows just the tricks to pull on Alfred. Really, we all do, but I’ll be six feet under before I’m caught pouting at anyone. If anything, Alfred would just break into hysterics. Which might be a nice distraction, but I’m not sure my pride is worth the risk.

    Apparently though, Alfred isn’t in the mood for Amelia’s tricks. “Spill,” he snaps, jerking his head.

    “Well,” Amelia says, playing at a curl, “We’re...making call-girl appointments?”

    It’s suddenly very hot in my small office. I loosen my tie.

    Alfred’s eyebrows shoot up, “You expect me to believe he’d do something like that? Ludwig?”

    I suppose I’d be relieved he’s sticking up for me, but I’m not sure I like the way he said that. “Amelia,” I try, “We should tell him.”

    She looks none too pleased about that. In fact, she looks like she’d love to hang me. “He’s my Sugar Daddy.”

    Wouldn’t mind a fan in this room, now that I think about it.

    Alfred snorts. “Right. Beilschmidt, are you in cahoots with my sister?”

    I’ve never had great luck, but today seems to be testing that, considering the door opens for a third time that day, and it isn’t Gilbert.

    Alfred doesn’t notice, and chides, “At a loss for words?” until his head turns, and I can see him trip over himself as he holds back a yelp. Heels click softly as they approach my desk, and my eyes trace their petite frame upwards from their blackened dress coat. I’d make eye contact if I could find them, but sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat prevent my analysis. Her silvery-blonde hair trickles from her shoulder when her lips speak, “Mr. Beilschmidt.”

    You’d think I’d be accustomed to speaking to women by now with Amelia for a partner, but there’s a large difference between her, and...whomever seems to know my name. “That would be me,” I mumble out, and my foot makes the mistake of kicking over those Coke bottles. One rolls to the window. No one moves to grab it. I can’t remember what moving feels like.

    Apparently confirming my name was an unsatisfactory response, as her mouth twitches softly. Considering it didn’t sound like a question to begin with, I can’t help but agree. Ya blew it, Beilschmidt. What would your brother think?

    Amelia breaks the growing silence. “This is Miss. Arlov...Arlovsk...?”

    “Arlovskaya,” she says, but there’s a bite to her words. Could be the accent. My throat dries as I remember my own.

    Again, Amelia seems unfazed. Her hands clap together. “She’s here about a case!”

    I hear myself say, “Is that so?” but I’m nearly sure no one else does. Something tells me she isn’t looking for a lost cat.

    For better or worse, we can all hear Alfred croak, “What the Hell is going on?”

    Arlovskaya’s sunglasses click as she folds them into her pockets. Her eyelashes flicker. “You are a detective,  yes?”

    “I... find dogs,  mostly,” I mutter, as if that qualifies as an answer.

Amelia pips up.  “Real dogs! Pigs! Jailbirds!”

“No!” Alfred looks homicidal as my voice cracks. I clear my throat. “No, really,” I explain, straightening my tie as Arlovskaya scans me, “Pets. Missing things. Common work.”

This settles terribly with everyone in the room. Except for the dust, which, apparently, settles on it’s own in this office. Why couldn’t I have taken up cleaning houses for extra money?

        Arlovskaya bites at her lip, smearing her red lipstick, but her eyes remain strong. She looks as though she might say something, but then the next thing we all hear is the sharp swipe of a knife finding it’s way into my desk. I hesitate to move. Her hand grips the handle. I can’t tell if Alfred’s afraid or mildly infatuated. Scratch that. I can’t tell if both the Jones siblings are afraid or infatuated. Incredible.

    I look up at her slowly, wondering if I should raise my arms in surrender. I refrain. She speaks. “You’re a detective, yes?”

    “By the textbook definition,” I say, “I suppose I am. Would you mind removing your knife?”

    Arlovskaya’s head tilts as if I’ve said something funny. I don’t say funny things. I’m German. The knife slips back out of the wood, and she pockets it, pulling out an old photograph in replacement. She flicks it towards me. “I need a detective.”

    The picture is of a young man, presumably around my age, with dangling mouse-brown hair, and a slim face. I’d say he was Slavic, but it didn’t seem to fit. He’s got a sheepish smile, and I can’t help but worry we aren’t being hired to catch him in some criminal act.

    As if on cue with my thoughts, Arlovskaya says, “He’s dead.”

Alfred clutches at his chest. Amelia looks fascinated

I think I feel a stomachache coming on.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 of North By Northwest! Please enjoy!

    About five seconds after my contemplation on my stomach ache, Alfred keeled over onto the floor. Apparently I attract useless-older-brother types. Amelia manages to sit Arlovskaya in my armchair while I pull Alfred up from the floor and carry him to the couch. I wonder momentarily if she’ll start ripping up my upholstery with that knife of hers. I like that armchair.

    I turn back to face Arlovskaya, who is, and I notice she’s none too thrilled about this, inches from a very curious Amelia, who may or may not be...smelling her. “Er,” I say, adjusting my suspenders, “Miss...Arlovskaya. Have you tried going to the police about this?”

    Her expression mirrors that of my mother’s the one evening Gilbert cut up her favorite blouse for a bird’s nest. Arlovskaya fingers the photograph, “The police...are unresponsive towards crime in my family,” she says, “You have heard of the Braginsky’s?”

    That twitch I’ve been developing for a good month on the side of my nose rears it’s head. The Braginsky family happens to be a infamous Russian mafia that takes up headquarters about a mile into the slick parts of downtown. We all know about it. It’s hard not to.

    Amelia’s staring at Arlovskaya like she’s some sort of museum piece. “I have,” I manage, finding my way to the desk chair.

    “Toris was a member,” Arlovskaya says quietly, flipping over the photograph. Amelia plucks it from her hands. She’s definitely got the nerves of her mother.

    I’m assuming Toris is the name of the deceased. “I’m sorry for your loss.”   

    Her eyes roll, “He was a useless man.”

    Amelia represses a giggle. I can’t help but wonder if insanity runs in her family.

    “He signed the back of this picture with a heart,” Amelia smiles softly, and to my amazement, nudges Arlovskaya, “Natalya’s a nice name.”

    Natalya Arlovskaya looks rather put off by this entire situation, and, if I’m not mistaken, tears are forming at the corner of her eyes. I shoot Amelia a look. She falls back. “Sorry.”

    Natalya blinks roughly, squeezing her eyes shut. “Will you be helping me or not?

    I can’t see how we’d be of any help, but it isn’t as if we can say no. I would love to tell her no, and redirect her to some other detective in the district so I could go back to crunching numbers. However, I wouldn’t like to know what happens to someone who denies the mafia of assistance. I don’t give her an answer. “Do you have any leads?”

    “Any clues that might help us solve this?” Amelia asks eagerly, as if we’ve already accepted, “Ooh, and do you think we’d see the crime scene?”

    “Amelia,” I warn, but Natalya holds up a hand.

    “Our family has many enemies,” Natalya says, “It would be hard to guess.”

    Alfred groans from the couch. I concur. “...Couldn’t we find a seasoned detective to assist you? I don’t mean to say we don’t want to help you, but this isn’t really our field of work.”

    Amelia glares at me as if I’ve offended the entire room. Natalya scoffs. “No detective in New York City helps Braginsky’s.”

    And yet she assumes we want to, I think, running a hand through my slicked back hair. “Have you been to the Smith’s?”

    She nods, crossing her legs and apparently ignoring my distain. “I will pay you, yes? You’re in need of money, aren’t you?”

    I can’t deny that, but I’m positive money isn’t worth getting tangled up in organized crime. “That isn’t my concern,” I start, but Amelia interrupts me, grasping Natalya’s hands.

    “We’d do it for free,” Amelia says, “Isn’t that right, Ludwig?”

    Like Hell it is.  I grimace, “Amelia, you’re only sixteen. I can’t be held responsible for getting you involved with a murder case.” I don’t want to get involved with a murder case.

    “Sixteen is old enough!” Amelia says, “Ma’s always telling me to be more responsible anyway!”

    “No,” Alfred snaps. I had forgotten he was over there.

    “Al, come on,” Amelia says, standing, “Are you both going to chicken out on Natalya? She came all this way because she needs help! What sort of men are you?”

    Logical. Sensible. Mature. Rational. I can keep going.

    This apparently hits Alfred harder than it does me. He sits up, and meets my eyes. “Lud and I will do it. You can stick back, ‘Melia, you’re just too young for these things. Right, Lud?”

    I agree with him, but I’d rather not be a part of a decision between siblings. “He has a point, Amelia.”

    Her foot stamps, ruffling her dress, “I’m going to come whether you’d very well like me to or not.”

    I can see a lightbulb go off above her head. She rounds on Natalya. “You’d like me to help, wouldn’t you? You’ve seen how these two get on,” she gestures at Alfred, “He even fainted!”

    Alfred flushes. So much for making a good first impression.

    Natalya seems to be considering Amelia’s offer very seriously. She appeals to me, “I will make sure she is protected.”

    Amelia shakes with excitement, “See? And you can’t say no to our client!”

    I very well can, but I’m not going to get into it with Amelia. Alfred doesn’t seem impressed either, but he says, “We’ll talk about it.”

    “Not a single lead?” I ask again, hoping the answer has changed.

    Natalya’s hands are turning something over in her pockets. “My brother did say one thing,” she says, “I am the youngest, so the family does not tell me much.”

    That explains her connection to Amelia. I nod.

    “My brother is a good man. I have to follow him to make sure he is safe,” Natalya says, and I hear the click of the switch on her blade, “Once, he went to a man’s shop. People had told us they were part of another family. The man denied it. Brother said he wouldn’t hesitate to send people over if he found out otherwise. He had two younger grandsons. Brother thought that one of them might do this as a lowly...initiation.”

    She clicks her tongue, “Families do not murder others for petty reasons like that.”

    No, but I’m sure robbery and general law-breaking is perfectly acceptable. Spare me the appeal. These “families” are bad news for very good reason, even if they do seem to have a code. Of course, I don’t say that, but my opinion still stands. “Did these grandson’s have names?”

    Natalya bites her cheek, “Fely...Felycyan?” her eyebrows furrow, “Piece of paper.”

    I hand her a sheet from my desk and a pen. If it wasn’t for the murderous look behind her eyes, she’d be an endearing little sister, I’m sure. She jots down a few words, crossing out the ones that are deemed less than satisfactory, and holds it out for me. I take it.

    “Feliciano Vargas?” I try. My English has improved in my years here, but that name throws my own tongue for a loop. The hell kind of name is “Feliciano”? I suppose I don’t have room to talk.

    Natalya nods, “He works at his grandfather’s restaurant. Sells pizza under that name. Vargas.”

    Alfred snaps his fingers, “I know that place! Man, talk about great food, you know? I took Amelia there a few times.”

    The ability Alfred has to think with his stomach at a time like this is truly inspiring.

    “Did they appear to be a part of organized crime, though?” I ask.

    He shrugs, and taps his chin in thought, “Not really? They were speaking Italian half of the time, and they were both making eyes at Amelia. Even the...oh, what’s-his-name? Lovino? Shouted at about everyone but Amelia and I, save a few other girls in the place. Real nice people.”

    Natalya’s eyes looked like daggers, directed especially at Alfred. He held up his hands in protest, “Th-that doesn’t mean they couldn’t have done it!”

    “Yeah,” Amelia says, with a look of disgust, “Both of those brothers were on active duty, too.”

    “...They’re in the military?” I ask, “How are they managing to work at the restaurant?”

    Apparently that isn’t at all what Amelia meant, and Alfred looks torn between having a laugh at me, and scolding Amelia for God knows what. Amelia giggles, “Of course Lud wouldn’t know slang for womanizers. Sorry Lud.”

    “Lud, is that your mother’s perfume or something?” Alfred says, grinning, “I swear I just caught a whiff of something fruity.”

    I’m very aware of his joke. Natalya seems to be sniffing the air suspiciously. I shoot him a look, “You’re mistaken.”

    Natalya fiddles with her switchblade in her palm, “What is “womanizers” meaning?”

    “They don’t know when to ease up on their lines towards the ladies,” Amelia says, brushing her hair behind her ear, “Real desperate for a date.”

    Natalya nods, but I’m positive she’s nowhere nearer to understanding than she was two minutes ago. She can’t be that much older than Amelia, now that I look at her. Someone that young shouldn’t be involved in these sorts of things...much less be raised by a mafia. “We’ll look into the Vargas’, Miss Arlovskaya,” I say, jotting down my personal number, “And if there’s anything else you think of, don’t hesitate to call.” Please hesitate.

    She tucks the card into her pocket and nods, her body language sheepish while her face maintains that hard, concentrated look. “Thank you.”

    “We do need the details of the crime, however,” I say, as unfortunate as that statement is, “Would you be able to give me that information?”

    Natalya nods, and Amelia dashes to grab the notebook from my desk. She plops down eagerly beside her and exclaims, “Give us the megillah!”

    “She means tell us all you can,” Alfred says, apparently helping himself to my Coke as he snaps the cap off against the couch, “With detail. If you’d rather write it, that’s fine. We just need to know his name, the place he was last seen, cause of death, those kind of things.”

    He takes a long swig, and sighs, handing me the bottle. I’m not particularly fond of drinking after others, but then again, I’m not particularly fond of the fact we’re going through with this. I slump, and take a drink with a groan. “Why are we doing this?”

    “I don’t like Amelia getting involved,” Alfred whispers, fiddling with the bottlecap, “But man, ain’t it swell to think we might be...I don’t know, heroes for this gal? Hardboiled detectives! Out to catch thugs! Ain’t it?”

    Alfred and Amelia are more alike than either of them and myself would like to admit. “Heroes?” I say, taking another careful drink, “You think so?”

    Alfred looks sheepish now, rubbing at the back of his neck, “Ah, I don’t know, man. I just wanna help people, you know?”

    It’s the same for me, but I don’t need to be running off head first into trouble to prove I’m a decent person. Balancing the books is heroic enough. “Just promise me you won’t do anything stupid,” I say, but my muttering falls on deaf ears. Alfred’s face is lax with a day dream. Typical.

    Natalya hands the notebook back to Amelia, acting as though touching it any longer might kill her if she doesn’t kill it first. “Is that all?” she asks, staring me dead in the eyes.

    Amelia says, “This looks like a good start!” so I nod, standing to offer a hand up to Natalya. She declines, rising on her own.

    “I will keep in touch,” she says, pulling her brimmed hat down to cover her eyes as she sets off downstairs where the rainfall awaits.

    The apartment is silent as the heel clicks echo down the staircase, but the moment we hear the front door shut, Alfred groans through his hand, “When the Hell were you going to tell me you were a couple of gumshoes and why wasn’t I in on it?”

    Amelia has that far-off look in her eyes again, “Gumshoes,” she repeats, “Isn’t that fantastic?”

    “No,” I say indignantly, “It is not fantastic, Amelia. Do you realize what we’ve gotten ourselves into?”

    “Let the kid have her moment,” Alfred says, relaxing into the couch, “Maybe it’ll be open-and-shut.”

    I’d like to have shouted: You-were-reprimanding-her-for-this-earlier-you-son-of-a-bitch, but fortunately for him and most likely the several other tenants in this building, Gilbert interrupts. “You didn’t tell me you had a girlfriend!” Gilbert says, clunking into the room, soot and dust in hand, “Slim, blonde? I knew you had it in you. She’s even got that glare you do!”

    My look of mortification only confused him further when Alfred and Amelia burst into laughter. I wonder if I could manage a boat trip back to Germany.

   

   

   


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 of North By Northwest. Feliciano and Lovino Vargas' are finally introduced!

The next few days drug by slowly. Arlovskaya had come by on a Thursday, and Alfred and I had both agreed there was no way we could slip away from the diner during the week. Neither of us felt comfortable leaving Mrs. Jones with the grunt work, and it wasn’t as though we could tell her what we were heading out to do. By the time Sunday came around, Amelia was completely uncontainable, jostling with excitement wherever she went.

    “She almost blew our cover,” Alfred says as we head out from the double doors of the diner, “Last night at dinner. Told Ma how excitable she was for tomorrow. Ma asked why, on account of me telling her I was just taking you both out for pizza, and Amelia’s been there loads of times.”

    “I couldn’t help it,” Amelia whines from behind me, crossing her arms, “I’ve been looking over Natalya’s notes since Thursday!”

    “You’re lucky she believed my lie about the pizza to begin with!” Alfred says, “Everyone knows Italian’s aren’t open on Sundays! Bunch of Catholics, for God sake’s.”

    That’s the only thing I understand about Catholics.

    “We just have to hope the Vargas’ will be available,” I say, with the assumption that like most immigrants in the district, home and the family business are in the same building, “Otherwise we’re going to have to talk to the Braginsky’s.”

    Alfred mimes a shudder, “Let’s save them for last.”   

    The area of the city we’re walking to isn’t the worst of it all, but it’s nowhere near the best. Most of your local crime headquarters have set up shop about a block or two around the outskirts, but, surprisingly, it keeps this part of the city safe. Despite a majority of the residence being of immigrant back around (primarily Italian in this area), the buildings are in fair condition, and the streets are relatively clean for New York City. However, I wouldn’t send Amelia here alone, and that isn’t to say I don’t think she can handle herself. I wouldn’t like to be alone here either.

    Neither Alfred nor Amelia seem to mind being around this crowd, and while I think that’s foolish, it’s also a bit admirable. Not too many Americans these days are all too accepting when it comes to immigrants. Especially Germans. Gilbert and I were very lucky to find them.

    Alfred breaks my thoughts with a nudge to the ribs, “Look, Lud, it’s your people.”

    He points to a sign reading “Fresh Sauerkraut”. Perhaps I spoke too soon.

    “Say-erkra-oot?” Amelia says, squinting at the sign, “What’s that?”   

    “Pickled cabbage,” I answer, giving her the proper pronunciation as well, “It’s a type of food from back home.”   

    “It’s also Lud’s secret alias,” Alfred says, ducking down to Amelia’s height with a grin, “Sour-Kraut.”

    Amelia giggles, “That’s Detective Sour-Kraut to you!”

    I hate this family.

    Distracting them from making anymore particularly offensive comments, I crane my neck to look down the block. “Is that the Vargas’ down there, Alfred?”

    Alfred sighs down a laugh, wiping his eye, “Ah, yeah, I think so. It’s pretty close to that pawn shop if I remember correctly. You know, the one with the blonde? Sort of talks like you? Short and angry?”

    “You don’t mean that sweet little girl in there, do you?” Amelia asks incredulously, “She was so shy!”

    “Nah, nah,” Alfred says, taking Amelia’s hand as we head down the block, “Her brother. Bash? That can’t be right...somethin’ foreign...”

    Before Alfred can figure it out, we’ve approached the restaurant. The Vargas’ apparently have a taste for flair, I notice, glancing up at the vibrant sign hanging from their storefront. Most places around here have signs in the window, and usually aren’t green, white, and red with...very detailed paintings of pizza and selected other dishes, which I assume are Italian as well. All in all, it’s hard to miss this place and the name.

    Unsurprisingly, the lights are off in the restaurant, and the closed sign is up on the door, denying us entry. However, the rooms above the restaurant are lit, giving the clear notion that the Vargas’ (at least, one of them), is in fact home. Considering all the excitement earlier, I would have assumed Amelia and Alfred would jump at the chance to ring them, but no one moves.

    I sigh. I do far too much sighing when it comes to these two.

    The buzzer rings, and instead of answering, a face appears to glance down at us from above, disappearing from the curtains before I so much as blink. From inside, the loud, hurried thumps echo from what I believe to be the staircase in the back, and two legs, followed by the rest of a young man’s body, appear. Before I can get a good look at him, he’s at the door, the bell ringing behind him as he approaches me.

    He’s slim, lanky, and only a few centimeters shorter than I am. His hair mirrors storybook sunsets, light auburn curtaining his honey colored eyes as he smiles at me, breath short. I can smell spices on this clothing, and feel the corners of my mouth struggle to move as if the wind has been knocked out of me. Something about him breathes of a sunny hillside, and for a moment, I can almost hear the bees buzzing against flowers in the dimly lit sky.

    Scratch that, I can definitely hear buzzing.

    My finger has been on the buzzer this entire time. God dammit.

    “You can let go now, Lud”, Alfred whispers, knocking my hand down.

    The man chuckles nervously, brushing his hair from his eyes, “Sorry, I should’ve answered you upstairs! I just don’t get a lot of calls around here, you know? Actually, Nonno told me I should be careful who I answer the buzzer for, but you three looked really nice, so I figured it couldn’t hurt. My name’s Feliciano!”

    He sticks a hand out in introduction. Frustratingly, I can’t get myself to move. Alfred reaches over me to accept it, “Don’t mind him, he’s bad at social obligations. Alfred F. Jones. This is my sister, Amelia. And the idiot staring at you is Ludwig Beilschmidt. Pleasure’s all his.”

    I clear my throat, shaking my head, “My apologies.”

    Feliciano laughs, “Don’t worry about it! We all have our moments. Nonno’s always said ‘People don’t need wine to act drunk!’, or...something like that anyway. Can I help you with something?”   

    An incredible first impression. I appear to be a drunken idiot. “We’re interested in asking you a few questions,” I say, a sick feeling to my stomach as I realize who Feliciano is, “Would you mind giving us a few minutes of your time?”   

    Feliciano’s face flickers with unease momentarily, but he smiles, and declares, “Of course not! Come on, we’ll take a seat in the restaurant.”

    I can’t help but feel he’s been “questioned” like this before from a less than favorable crowd. His trust makes me wary. Alfred seems to be thinking the same thing, and offers a smile, “Thank you.”

    The restaurant itself isn’t much to look at. White walls with red and green lines. Advertising for local businesses hanging idly. A clean counter at the back for taking orders. Our trio follows Feliciano to the first table silently, sitting to face him as he joins us. Feliciano glances back at the counter, and bites his lip, “You’re not here to threaten us again, are you?”

    Just as expected. Amelia’s lip wavers, and I hear her whisper something like “Threaten this guy?” I’d like to agree, but I can’t say I should. We are, in fact, questioning a murder suspect, and that requires pushing my feelings aside. Wait.  My feelings? There are no feelings. Murder suspect. Male. Off limits. Beilschmidt.

    I shake my head apologetically, “No, Mr. Vargas. Though we would like to ask you a few questions pertaining to that. Can we assume you’ll answer truthfully?”

    Alfred shoots me a look, “Don’t say that so coldly! Can’t you see he’s scared?”

    Feliciano raises his hands, “It’s alright, really! He’s got no reason to trust me!” he laughs nervously, “I’ll be as truthful as I can.”

    “Good,” I say, pulling out a notebook from my pockets, “Your full name?”

    Amelia snatches the notebook from me, “We already know that! Give me this thing!”

    Alfred seems exasperated as well, and sighs, “Listen, Vargas, the reason we’re here is because someone from the Braginsky’s seems to think you had it in you to kill one of their members. For ‘initiation purposes’. They also seem to think you’re a part of your grandfather’s mafia.”

    Feliciano looks misty-eyed, “You think I killed someone?”

    Both Amelia and I blurt out “No!” before I catch myself and cough, “Obviously not until we have reason to believe you did.”

    “M-Murder! Me!” Feliciano says, wringing his hands, “The Braginsky’s have been threatening my family for months! I’m surprised they haven’t murdered one of us yet! Nonno’s been so worried...and now they think I’ve done something? It doesn’t matter if I haven’t or not, this is their chance, isn’t it? To have something on us? I don’t want to die! I’m still a virgin! Who would look after the restaurant if something happened to one of us? What would Mama say?”

    About seventy-five percent of that was unnecessary information. I’m not saying which parts. Amelia reaches across the table to take his hands in an effort to calm him down, “We’re not going to let them hurt you, okay? Even if you did murder someone, we’d protect you!”

Amelia.

“You’d do that for me?” Feliciano says with a sniff as Amelia pulls out her handkerchief, “Ah, being told that by a beautiful Signorina...”

Alfred snorts from beside me and whispers, “Stop glaring at my sister.” Was I glaring at Amelia? I was certain I was searching for a piece of lint on her dress. Alfred has absolutely no idea what he’s talking about.

“Mr. Vargas,” I implore, really, because we ought to be focusing, “We need to know everything the Braginsky’s have said to your family. Any information you have is useful.”

    Feliciano honks noisily into Amelia’s borrowed handkerchief. Her smile wavers, and I’m nearly certain that last back pat was more aggressive than necessary. “There isn’t much,” Feliciano says, “Mostly they just demand Nonno fesses up and fights them, but obviously we aren’t going t--”

    Thunderous footsteps come rumbling down the stairs, interrupting Feliciano. Oddly enough, I can see a look of distemperment on Feliciano’s face. And, apparently, a second look of distemperment on Feliciano’s clone racing towards me with murderous intent. There’s a hand at my collar yanking me upwards, but the strength isn’t enough to pull me from my seat, just constrict my airways. I stifle a breath. “The fuck do you think you’re doing, harassing my brother again?” he sneers, but the rest of the group shouts “Lovino!” and different variations of, “He’s turning colors!”, and he releases me.

    I would have questioned the tears at the corners of his eyes if I had been able to see past my own, I think, rubbing my throat tenderly, but I doubt that’s something you want to bring up with this guy. Feliciano’s standing, I notice, my eyes coming back into focus, and he shouts some sort of line of Italian at Lovino. Alfred leans over to me, and claps a hand on my back, “You alright there, Ludge?”

    I nod and wave him off. Mostly to get his hands off of my back. Not helping. Lovino has finished his rapid return of Italian, and turns back to me, “Hasn’t anyone taught you to fucking announce yourself in someone else’s home?” Lovino says, but there’s less of a bite to his words, and I’m 99.9% sure that’s because of Feliciano.

    “Ludwig Beilschmidt,” I croak, “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

    “I told you,” Feliciano says, crossing his arms, “Can’t you trust me, Lovi?”

    “He’s a goddamn Kraut!” Lovino snaps, “You’re making friends with the Krauts now?”

    “That’s enough!”

    Amelia’s scream stops Lovino in his tracks. He apparently hadn’t noticed her until now, and I can see his expression soften at the sight of her. Something like an expression of a terrible stomach ache comes over his face before he quietly says, “Mi dispiace…”

    “Apologize to Ludwig,” Amelia says, “You have no right to call him those things.”

    “Amelia, it’s alright,” I start, but she cuts me off with a glare. God help me if I ever marry.

    Feliciano seems to agree with Amelia, and has his eyes glued on me, most likely trying to assess the damage to  my throat. Or he’s...admiring me? I’m not sure how to read that expression, but the moment I try, he notices that we’re staring straight at each other, and turns away. Lovino doesn’t notice, and sheepishly, bitterly, offers me an apology. I accept it.

    Amelia doesn’t seem thoroughly pleased by it, but sits back down in her seat, regardless. There’s a certain proud look to Alfred at the moment. Brothers.

    “So?” Lovino says, staring at me.

    I blink up at him. “What?”

    “What the hell are you here for?” Lovino snaps.

    “Not to be strangled, I’d imagine,” Alfred says with a laugh.

    Personally I can’t believe he’s asking the one with a damaged throat, but from what I’ve seen from Lovino, my beliefs don’t correlate with his actions. Perhaps the murderer isn’t as far from Feliciano as we thought.

    Somehow, Alfred seems to look at me as if he knows what I’m thinking. He shakes his head, whispers, “Not him,” and with a wink that says “You’ll see,” turns back to Lovino.

    “We’re here about the murder of Toris Laurinaitis,” Alfred says, “From the Braginsky family.”

    Lovino’s eyes widen, but he hardens his expression once again. “The Braginsky’s?”

    “The very ones,” Alfred says, “And they seem to think your brother was involved.”

    Apparently Lovino finds that even less believable than we do, because he lets out a barking laugh, “Feliciano? Femminile Feliciano? Damn idiots have finally lost it.”

    “We believe they’re trying to pin the crime on your family as means to force you into some sort of...organized crime war,” I say, graciously ignoring Feliciano fighting down a blush, “It’s very doubtful that they actually believe him capable.”

    “They’ve tried everything,”  Feliciano pips up, “They came in once claiming we sent them a box of empty bullet shells instead of pizza. I don’t even know what those look like!”

    Somehow I don’t doubt that.

    “Yeah, and that one putrid ring leader they’ve got going always makes me fish out the anchovies from the back like he doesn’t know I hate them. Fuckin’ smiling the entire time he’s in here. Can’t use the English language worth horseshit.”

    Feliciano looks as though he’s holding back a joke, but his mouth straightens as Alfred says, “Ivan?”

    “Yeah, that bastard,” Lovino says, waving an arm, “Big nose. Sort of fat.”

    “Lovino,” Amelia says warningly.

    Lovino scoffs, but says quietly, “Big-boned, then.”

    I can’t help but wonder why the Braginsky’s want to pick a fight with the Vargas’ to begin with. Amelia would make a better enemy.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! (I promise the M rated things come soon.)

The sun settles low in the sky by the time we make our way out of the Vargas’ residence, Alfred insisting that Mrs. Jones would be threatening to “mount our asses on the wall” if we didn’t get Amelia back home by dusk. Lovino agrees wholeheartedly, but not for the same reason, considering he threatened to mount my ass on the wall if I didn’t leave as soon as possible. I’m sure he’s forgiven me for imposing on their home, but I’m not so sure he’s forgiven my heritage.

That’s not uncommon around here, really. I made a comment to Gilbert about changing our names to something American once. He told me I was a “damn fool if I thought that was going to change anything,” and “someone has to be proud of being German, and I’ll be damned if it isn’t us.” I can’t say I understand him, but I’ve never brought it up again. Regardless, I’m not much of a “Luke Smith”.

We make it halfway to the apartment before my stomach flutters unpleasantly. Feliciano saw us out as we left, sending us along with a quickly made pizza and a loaf of bread, and we all smiled uncomfortably as Lovino grimaced and hesitantly checked the amount of flour they had left. Alfred said we’d have to make a point to stop by with diner food this week. I’m not sure if Lovino’s the sort of person who’d eat diner food, much less something I’d bring him, but I offer to go with Alfred when the time comes. God knows we’d be back there soon.

More importantly (and the reason for the uncomfortable wavering in my abdomen), was what Feliciano said to me before I left. Amelia and Alfred were a few feet down the sidewalk when he called me back to the door, and whispered quietly in my ear, “Please don’t get yourself hurt for me.”

I was quiet for a moment, but shook my head. “We’re doing this for a client.” As if that was an answer. An excuse. A reassurance.

Feliciano’s brow furrowed at that. “You trust them enough not to lead you into…?” He can’t seem to finish that, but I know what he’s getting at.

“Not entirely,” I said, and I stop myself before asking “What’s the worst that could happen?” because I know what the worst is and I’ve spent days thinking about the worst of this and right now, Feliciano doesn’t need to hear someone telling him that the worst doesn’t exist.

He bit his lip. “You really don’t need to do this.”

“No,” I said, “No, I do.”

Apparently not the answer he wanted. Or perhaps it was. He’s hard to read.

Feliciano bid me goodbye after that. I think there was a part of him that wanted to pull me back inside. It’s hard to swallow when I realize that, and Alfred’s been glancing over at me every few seconds, waiting to ask a question I already know is coming.

“What did Feliciano want?”

There it is.

I manage a swallow, “Nothing, really.”

Alfred’s shoe scuffs the sidewalk. “Didn’t seem like nothing.”

“Aren’t Italians known for making something out of nothing?” I reply, turning over the loaf of bread in my hands, “We’re nearly home.”

Something tells me I’ve broken some sort of rule with Alfred just now, and he’s going to treat me coldly until I give him details. Really, I don’t know what else to say but “He’s worried we might get ourselves killed for him, and also might have a thing for me,” which is taboo between this group for a multitude of reasons, not that I think Alfred would think any less of me for one of those things, but he just might for bringing up the possibility of death to Amelia.

It’s funny, really, how illogical the brain gets in moments of stress, when you’re expected to be the most logical. I can’t stop myself from replaying the closeness between us prior to a whisper about death, and if that’s not illogical, I don’t know what is.

Arlovskaya is waiting on the steps for us as the diner comes into focus. I can see Alfred’s shoulders stiffen, and he grabs Amelia by her own. “I haven’t been waiting long,” she says, as if that’s supposed to reassure us.

Mrs. Jones appears from the door. “Alfred, Ludwig, Miss. Arlovskaya came by just a moment ago to speak with you an-oh! She’s still here! Well. That solves that. Amelia, come inside, dear, it’s getting cold.”

Amelia says, “Okay, Ma!” but Alfred and I know before we even manage a look at her that she’s going to give us Hell for this later.

They disappear behind the doorway before Arlovskaya speaks, “You visited the Vargas’ today.”

The fact that this is a statement and not a question unnerves me. Alfred says, “Yes,” but I say, “How did you know?” and I can see the confusion begin on Alfred’s brow.

“Informant,” Arlovskaya says, and horribly, I can feel my earlier pity for her disappear. They’ve been spying on the Vargas’ this entire time.

I glare at her, and the bite of guilt hits me when I see her back away warily. “I am paying you for this, remember,” she says, “Protecting you.”

“Can’t trust us enough to carry out our investigations undisturbed?” I ask.

Her eyes sadden, “You know I cannot stop them myself,” she says, but doesn’t add that she’d like to. I grit my teeth.

I know. Deep down, I knew that from the start of this conversation. I can’t quell my misplaced anger at this situation, however. But I do bite my tongue. Alfred says, “What do they think?”

“Brother did not take kindly to being called “big-nosed” and “fat”,” she says, staring at her nails, “Says maybe Lovino person did it. I tell him no, but he says maybe we should pay Lovino another visit.”

Alfred scoffs, “You know he’s all bark and no bite.”

Oddly, Arlovskaya seems to disagree. “He has no right to insult my brother.”

“Your brother is part of the same group who happens to threaten the safety and lives of Lovino’s family,” I spit, “He’s got plenty of right.”

A dangerous look comes over Arlovskaya, “He and Katyusha are the only family I have. You know nothing of where we come from. Where did your promise of helping me go?”

“I know nothing of where you come from?” I round on her, “Do you have any idea...Do you know what my brother and I went through to get to America? Do you see us involved in murders? Do you see us threatening families to get what we want?”

“I see you eating plenty and living in safe home,” Arlovskaya says plainly, “If you would like to say more, I have no problem giving you something to complain about.”

Part of me wants to ask if that’s a threat, but she looks more like a wounded dog than anything, and I shut my mouth. Alfred seems relieved. “I promise to do what I can to keep Vargas’ safe,” she says quietly, “Do not think I want them dead.”

Alfred says, “Of course we don’t think that!” but I’m too stubborn to agree.

I’m being an idiot about this, I know. But really, that only makes me angrier.

“Where are you going to go from here?” Arlovskaya asks.

Alfred looks at me. “I figured Lud had that planned out.”

I shrug my shoulders, “I’ve got something.” A lie. My thoughts are focused on finding that brother of hers and letting him know just what intimidation feels like.

“Good,” Arlovskaya says, “I will check up on you soon. If you want to come see me, use this address.”

She hands Alfred a card. Vaguely, I wonder if she’s asking us to come speak to the family, but then my mind drifts to pinning them to walls and beating sense into them...and I shake my head. I’m not a violent man, but I’ll be damned if I don’t wish I was sometimes.

“Thanks, Nat,” Alfred says with a smile, and I can see Arlovskaya straighten in surprise.

She nods courteously, eyes Alfred with curiosity, and makes her way down the sidewalk.

Alfred sighs, “What a woman.”

“Flirting with the enemy, Jones?” I say, holding the door open as he makes his way past me, rolling his eyes.

“You’re one to talk.”

He’s silent for the rest of the trip inside, and we don’t say our usual goodnights as we make it to our rooms. As I swing the door open to my room, Gilbert’s voice greets me from the couch. I had forgotten about him not going into work today.

“You’re still awake?” I ask, but I regret my words when I catch the look on his face.

“Been out having fun?” Gilbert says, and that terrible parental stare scans me for information.

No, but I can’t say that honestly. “Yes. We took Amelia out for pizza,” I say, and start towards my bedroom.

Gilbert stops me, “You’re not going anywhere until you tell me what the Hell is going on.”

“There’s leftovers downstairs if you’re really that burned up about this,” I try, but Gilbert only stares me down, and I find myself seated next to him in the armchair.

“So?”

I sigh. “You realized the restaurant wouldn’t be open on Sunday didn’t you?”

“Catholic school tends to push those things,” Gilbert says, “Are you going to tell me what’s going on or not?”

“Do you want the short version or the long version?” I ask, slumping forward into my hands.

He puts his feet up on the coffee table. I grimace. He shoots me a look. “I’ve got time.”

I fill Gilbert in on Arlovskaya, and his face looks darker than I’ve ever seen when I tell him who we’re working for, exactly, and that I’ve gotten Amelia and Alfred roped into this, kids of the family who took us in, and I find that the parts about the Vargas are stuck in my throat by the time I get the rest of the story out. Gilbert doesn’t move for a long time. When he does, it’s slow, as if he’s gained fifty years. I feel guilty for it.

“Wasn’t the job at the diner enough for you?” Gilbert says, disappointment hanging in his voice, “You know why I kept you from the factory, and you went out to find a job that could get us all killed. I thought you were smarter than this, Ludwig.”

Full-name basis. Not a good sign.

“It wasn’t supposed to turn out this way,” I explain, though I can’t really say I want to, “Amelia and I found pets, lost jewelry, things like that.”

“And you didn’t turn that woman down?” Gilbert asks, “You didn’t tell her ‘I can’t put the lives of myself and my family at stake for your goddamn problems’? You just went along with it?”

My lips tighten. He’s right, and I can’t argue with him, because God knows I think the same things he’s preaching. Gilbert’s head droops. “You were the one Opa said he wouldn’t have to worry about. Ludwig ‘Perfekt’ Beilschmidt. Off getting into organized crime because he doesn’t know how to say no to someone in need.”

“It’s ‘Wilfried’, actually,” I mutter.

Gilbert looks at me, and I can’t tell if he’s holding back a smile or a grimace. “I knew keeping my baby brother from the factory wasn’t going to work. You always gotta involve yourself some how, don’t you?”

I shrug, “It’s more or less like the world finds ways to involve me.”

“Yeah, well,” Gilbert says, flicking his lighter for a cigarette, “Learn to tell the world ‘no’. You’re not invincible. That’s your big brother’s job.”

He puffs and offers me a light. I decline. He knows I hate that habit of his.

“So?”

Gilbert cocks an eyebrow at me. “What?” I say, assuming this is going to be another round of “Go and tell those mafia members you can’t play with them anymore.”

“Why were you at the Vargas’ today?” he says, as if it’s an obvious question (which it very well is considering I had kept from answering it earlier).

I let out a long, heavy sigh that I was unaware I had built up. “They think one of the brothers is a suspect.”

“What?” Gilbert asks incredeously, “What? The Vargas brothers? We’re talking about the same Vargas’ aren’t we? Nearly twins? Ones got the disposition of a rabid dog? The other’s a bit of a putz but he’s--”

“Kind.”

“Niedlich.”

I raise an eyebrow at Gilbert.

He shrugs, “Stating the facts.”

“He isn’t a ‘putz,’” I say, defensively, “He’s…”

Well, he’s a bit of a putz.

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Gilbert says, rubbing out his cigarette, “I’m just saying. Could probably lift him with one arm. Might as well start dressing like a woman, if you want my honest opinion.”

“And you’re calling someone else a putz,” I say.

“He’d make a nice housewife.”

I grimace, “Gilbert.”

“Anyway, they think it’s Lovino or something, right?” Gilbert says, flicking his cigarette into the ash tray.

“Feliciano,” I say, and Gilbert holds down a laugh.

“Those Braginsky’s are losing their grip,” he says, with a snicker, “You know, that Ivan guy who works at the factory with me came up today and asked me if I’d like to ‘join his family’, like it was a prize. Punched him right in that huge ass nose of his.”

“You mean you mumbled ‘no’ and had to sit down after your nose started bleeding from stress,” I say.

“Details,” Gilbert shrugs, looking all too put-off by my comment.

“We’re going to see the Braginsky’s this week,” I say, avoiding his gaze.

He glowers, as expected. I was avoiding this. “No, you’re not.”

“We are if we’re going to solve this murder.”

Gilbert straightens. “To Hell with the murder, Ludwig! It was just some idiot kid that stuck his nose where it didn’t belong! You don’t need to be involved!”

I swallow.

“They’ll kill Feliciano.”

Gilbert pulls out another cigarette. “Yeah? And why should we care? I get that you want to play some theatrical hero, but you need to leave the dangerous business to me. What am I supposed to tell Opa when you wind up getting yourself killed? ‘Whoops, sorry Opa! Guess I’m alone here in America on the streets again because my baby brother went and got himself and the Jones’ kids offed. Hope I make it till December!’”

“I know what I’m doing,” I snap, a bit too harshly, “You can’t stop me from helping them. You’re at work all the time.”

“Yeah,” Gilbert puffs, “To keep us fed. Damn me. Clearly I’m the one who fucked up.”

I can’t argue with him, even if I wanted to. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m still continuing with this investigation.”

Gilbert takes a long drag. “I know.”

Silence.

Gilbert is the second person who refuses me a good night that evening.


	5. Chapter 5

At 6 o’clock, I’m awakened by one Amelia Jones, who, by no means, has any idea how to properly wake someone from their sleep.

            By that, I mean slamming open my door and throwing herself onto my chest.

            “Lud!” she says, before I can so much as remember that is in fact my name (of sorts), “Oh, good, you’re awake. Hey, listen, I was up all night thinking about how we’re probably going to go see the Braginsky’s and--”

            “We?” I croak.

            “Yes, we, considering you and Al haven’t even looked at each other in two days! Anyway, Braginsky’s. They’re really scary. Probably intimidating, right? So we should make sure we look just as intimidating!”

            She rattles a box in her hands, “Look! Fake cigarettes. I know you wouldn’t smoke the real ones, but I don’t think those goons will know the difference. Here! Try one!”

            Amelia shoves what looks like a piece of thin chalk in my mouth. I sputter. “They’re just sugar ones, Lud, really, don’t be so dramatic. I also nicked a trenchcoat from Pops. He’s got some really old gross ones in the back of his closet from Grandpa.”

I grimace. “Aren’t you a sharp one. Can you get off of me now?”

“No dice!” Amelia says with a laugh, and then narrows her eyes, “First, you gotta tell me what went down with you and Al.”

I should have seen this coming. “Absolutely nothing.”

“Oh, well if that’s all!” Amelia motions to move, and then jolts down on my chest. I gasp. “Don’t you know not to lie to little girls? Tell me what happened!”

 I can feel the pained expression on my face, “Please don’t jump again.”

“Tell me,” she says, nose to nose.

I cannot believe I’m being interrogated by a sixteen year old girl. “Fine. He asked me what

Feliciano and I spoke about the other evening, and I told him it wasn’t important.”

Amelia looks at me, thoughtful, as if she’s five seconds away from hopefully leaping away from me and dashing downstairs. She unfortunately does neither of those things. A merciless grin spreads. “So, what you’re saying is that Alfred, who is helping you with this case because he’s your friend, and didn’t rat us out to Ma or Pops, and even lets me come along for things...wanted to know what our suspect talked about with you in private. And you didn’t tell him. Alfred, who talked Pops into letting you stay with us. Alfred, who always chips in when you have dish dut--”

Goddamn, this girl is good.

“Alright! Alright...I get it. I’ll apologize,” I say, squirming.

“And?” she asks, sing-song.

“And what?”

“And tell him what Feliciano told you?”

I sputter again, “It wasn’t worth telling in the first place!”

Amelia smacks the top of my head, “Everything is worth telling when it comes to _murder,_ you dumbo!”

“Ow! Amelia,” I say, leaning up in bed, “Honestly, all he said was that he didn’t want us getting ourselves killed for him, and I told him he didn’t need to worry about it!”

Amelia’s eyes narrow, “And how were we supposed to know that when you kept giving him doe-eyes? For all Alfred knows, he could’ve told you he’d killed someone!”

She raises a fair point. Except for the bit about the doe-eyes. I have absolutely no idea where this girl gets her terrible observation skills from. I glower. “Will you stop injuring me if I promise to tell Alfred and apologize? And kindly get off my stomach?”

Amelia looks devious once more. “How am I supposed to know you’ll keep your promise?”

Honestly, if she were any older she’d make a better detective than I would ever be. As per always with these sorts of conversations, I hold out my pinky finger. She rolls her eyes, but smiles regardless. “Again with the pinky promise? Lud, you always do that…”

“And I haven’t broken one yet, have I?” I say, cocking an eyebrow.

She wraps her finger around mine, “Yeah, but it’s not something tough detectives do! You gonna pinky promise with Ivan Braginsky so he doesn’t go and stab you in the back?”

I can’t help but feel some sort of deja vu. Perhaps some sort of “past life” nonsense? Illogical. “If it works, it works.”

She snorts. “You’re a fruit. But I still like you,” she climbs off of me, and hops onto the ground, “Don’t forget you’re on breakfast duty this morning with Al. Might want to get dressed.”

She salutes, and I salute back, watching as she bounces out into the hallway. The candy cigarette still hangs from my mouth, and I can’t help but feeling like those sorts of devil-may-care protagonists from the novels as I lean back in a stretch. Perhaps Amelia was right. Looking intimidating would be beneficial to--

“What are you doing?”

Gilbert’s head appears from the side of the doorframe, toothbrush in his mouth.

I find that it was a lucky chance those candy cigarettes dissolve fast when they become lodged in your throat.

\-------

 

            Breakfast duty runs slowly, as both Alfred and I are working on dishes, and Alfred has thus far only spoken five words as he brings back dishes from customers to wash. Normally, I would have some form of conversation, which, no matter how I may like to deny it, makes the job easy and, well, enjoyable, in some parts. Even if it means suffering through Alfred’s renditions of “Over the Rainbow” and saxophone miming. Or his prompting to help him pronounce the chorus in “Bei Mir Bist Du”...which...was slightly awkward having to repeat “Bei mir bist du schön” to your best friend on occasion, but you learn to deal with it.

Honestly, I can’t believe he would assume I could keep the knowledge of a murder to myself. If Feliciano had really admitted to doing the crime...I…

A part of me is hesitant to think about that. Even if he had...could we really sit back and allow the Braginsky’s to torture him? Could I really...drop the case at this point?

Alfred interrupts my thoughts by slamming the next load of dishes beside me in the sink. And breaking the bottom dish. And apparently injuring himself in the process, as I realize he’s clutching his hand after I relax from the initial noise shock. Wait.

“God _dammit,”_ Alfred hisses, a rare curse (that isn’t something like “Hitchcock” or another nonsensical word) escaping his mouth.

Considering my personality, (which Amelia and Alfred affectionately call ‘Mother Hen’ and that I affectionately resent.) I am generally the one to go to in these sorts of situations. In fact, I’m not sure if there’s anyone other than Mrs. Jones and I in the diner that is aware of where the first aid kit is located. You would think that working with hot foods and ceramic dishes would automatically make you _want_  to know where the medical supplies are, but I digress. Alfred confirms that, as I’m struggling to watch him fumble about the room in search of it as he continues holding his hand.

...And manages to knock down a shelf of boxes. I can’t watch this anymore.

I stand from my seat at the sink, and (while I’d rather not admit this) nervously clear my throat. Alfred stops. “I can fix that for you, if you’d like.”

His back straightens, faced away from me, and I wonder for a moment if I’ve said the wrong thing. But he sighs and says, “Alright.”

I nod, and grab the kit from beneath the sink. Alfred’s still wearing a scowl as he sits, finding the tiles in the diner floor to be vastly more fascinating than usual. Of course, they flicker up at me from moment to moment, as I notice from the corner of my eye, and we nearly meet eyes as I retrieve bandages and antiseptic from the kit, moving over to him. He continues staring at the floor, eyebrows knotted. I’ve rarely seen him keep that expression on his face for more than a few seconds. In fact, it’s the sort of expression he would reprimand me for showcasing, teasing that it would “stick that way,” no matter how many times I told him it was impossible. I can see why Amelia was so urgent on fixing things. Alfred has no business making faces like that.

“Erm,” I say, dabbing antiseptic onto a clean rag, “Can I see your hand? This might sting.”

He nods, glancing up momentarily, and holds out his hand for me, the palm covered in blood. From the looks of it, he’s split it down the middle, but it isn’t too deep. I make an attempt to gingerly wipe away the blood, but Alfred hisses regardless. It’s a drastic change from the Alfred who would be sloppily grinning past watery eyes, spouting a joke along the lines of “When he becomes a superhero, he’ll be fixing our cuts and bruises,” even though Amelia’s long since believed in that sort of thing, and only rolls her eyes, but smiles for him. Things like that were important to Alfred. And, while I would agree in conversation that they were childish, there was something admirable about them.

A guilty pang hits my gut when I remember why Gilbert and I are even with the Jones’ family to begin with. Alfred had vouched for us, I knew. And that isn’t to say the Jones’ weren’t keen on taking us in. It was more so whether or not they could trust our character. We were German immigrants, after all, and even though Mr. and Mrs. Jones knew better than to make prejudices, you could never be too careful in this part of town. They wanted to assure their own safety, and that was perfectly understandable to us. But Alfred pushed them. He convinced them, and gave Gilbert and I a place to call home. He could trust us as strangers, and I couldn’t even manage to...tell him about someone who was practically a stranger to me. Since when had I become secretive in the first place…?

That strange, cliche phenomena of words sticking in your throat is happening to me the moment I decide to apologize and tell all. Not to say I find it hard to apologize, but more so that at this point I feel it isn’t good enough. I fumble Alfred’s bandage, mumbling a curse. He stares up at me, and I can see his chest rise as he inhales, eyes moving upwards with his breath.

“This is stupid.”

Alright, not what I was expecting, but I’ll take it.

My eyebrows raise. “I was going to say the same thing about myself,” I say, finishing the bandage, “I should have told you, honestly, I don’t know what came over me--”

“Lud, really,” Alfred says, examining his hand, “It’s stupid, man, forget it. If it was something important, you would’ve told me. I trust you. I just. I don’t know. With you and ‘Melia out doing this stuff behind my back in the first place...I just thought maybe there was more you weren’t telling me. And I know that you kept what you two were doing secret for her sake, it’s just...Aw, this is stupid…”

My lips purse. “The only thing stupid is the fact you’re taking the fault in this in the first place.”

“I was jealous, okay?” Alfred says, a well-known pout returning to his face, “You’re always getting along with Amelia, and…I don’t know, finding out your kid sister and your best friend have been running off behind your back while you’re stuck at a diner working late shifts instead of...doing something. _Being_ something. Even if it’s something small...I would have helped you two. I’m sorry for acting like an idiot. I was just, yanno...”

There was a part of me that wanted to react to the “best friend” bit, but I held my tongue. Alfred was right. We hadn’t really thought of his feelings at all. Amelia was so insistent on keeping it from him as to protect herself that I just followed suit, when...as an older brother figure, I should have thought about what we might do to Alfred when he found out. Of course he would have wanted to come along. He wouldn’t have stopped us or Amelia unless we gave him reason to. And considering the case right now, it would have to be one hell of a reason.

“You weren’t acting like an idiot,” I say, crossing my arms, “It’s completely understandable. Amelia and I should have known better than to leave you out of something like this. _I_ at least should have known better. And for me to leave you in the dark after something so big was foolish. I should be the one apologizing to you.”

Alfred waves the uninjured hand, “Nah, seriously. It’s alright. I knew it was probably something sappy and you were embarrassed or somethin’. Like that guy could spill his guts out about a murder that quick. Think it’d just be faster for him to sign it out to you.”

“How long are you going to keep making jokes about Feliciano and I after I’ve told you there’s absolutely nothing like that between us?”

Alfred grins sloppily, “Yet, you mean. And if there’s nothing like _that_ between you, there’s gotta be something else between you. I’d say a decently priced salami and a cheap bratwur--”

I would have felt bad about twisting his arm behind his back had their been witnesses. “Shouldn’t you get back to busing, Alfred?” I say, eyes narrowed from behind him.

“Ow, ow! Okay, okay,” Alfred says, half laughing, “You’re right. Ma’s going to start wondering where I went off to if she hasn’t started already. Nice talk, Lud.”

I let go of his arm, and he extends it for me to shake. I accept. “Nice talk. Right. I’m glad we--”

Alfred yanks his hand away and dashes for the door, “Sorry about the broken plate pieces in the sink, but like you said, I have to get back to busing!”

“Alfred, you son of a--”

I’m interrupted (unfortunately) by the doors swinging open before Alfred can so much as grasp the handle. He collides with the person behind it, who stumbles back with a “Oh!” and disappears behind the door once more. For a moment, I think he’s run into his mother, and I quickly rush to the door to assist her. “Mrs. Jones, are you alright?”

Instead, Feliciano peers up at me. He waves meekly. “Hello.”

Alfred groans from the floor beside him. “I hit my head, but you’d be damn sure I remember what parts I’ve got, thanks.”

“Sorry, Alfred,” Feliciano says, standing to help him up, “Your mother sent me back here...I didn’t know you came out of the door in such a hurry. What happened to your hand? Are you alright?”

Alfred holds out his bandaged hand, “Just a little cut.”

“He broke a dish,” I say, glaring at Alfred, “And was trying to leave me with the mess.”

“ _He’s_ the one who told me to get back to work,” Alfred says, gesturing to me, “I better go tell Ma what happened if she’s sending people back here. Ech. See ya around, Feliciano.”

Feliciano nods with a smile. Alfred disappears into the diner. And I’m stuck in the back room with Feliciano and a pile of dishes. I’m not sure this karma has worked out for the best. Feliciano’s staring at me expectantly. “Erm, so,” I start, “What are you doing here?”

His eyes widen. “Oh! Sorry, sorry, I forgot what I was doing here myself,” he laughs, “Uh, well, I thought I might stop by to talk to everyone. Make sure that you’re all doing okay. I brought food! Alfred’s mother has it. She seemed pretty excited.”

“She doesn’t get many breaks from cooking,” I say, which is the honest truth, as both the homemaker and one of the heads of the diner makes for a constant job in the kitchen.

“Yeah, I figured as much,” Feliciano says, fiddling with his collar, “That’s good then. I’m glad I brought something. Has Amelia been alright?”

“Considering she woke me up by straddling my chest, I’d say she’s doing just fine.” I’m nearly sure she misplaced a rib, now that I think about it.

Feliciano looks surprised. “I didn’t peg you as a guy who would be so forward about his...uh, personal life. But I guess it was sort of obvious you and Amelia were something…”

I blink. We’re what? Pseudo-siblings? “Huh?”

“You know. Together?”

I feel as though this would have been the correct moment to spit a drink if I had been drinking anything. I also can feel the heat spreading to my ears. Feliciano doesn’t seem to notice. I shake my head, “S-She’s more of a sister, really.”

Feliciano reddens, but not by much. It’s just a faint dust on his cheeks. Not that I’m...looking at his cheeks. Or anything. “Oh! Right, sorry, I just...assumed...someone like you would be in a relationship, and when you said that I thought it might be with Amelia...Alfred always mentioned you two were off together when he’d stop by alone. So.”

He fell silent. This was not how I pictured our second meeting. I assumed we would be off to meet him again after visiting the Braginsky’s. I’d have the murder solved and be able to tell Feliciano he could rest easy. At the very least, I did not wish to have a conversation about him believing Amelia to be my...erm. Partner. I wouldn’t like to think of what Alfred would have done if that was the secret we had been keeping from him all this time.

“I am...currently not entangled in any sort of romantic affairs at all, actually,” I manage, “Not really the...dating type.”

Feliciano slugs me (in what I assume to be attemptedly playful manner) in the arm. “Sure you are! A guy like you? My brother would kill to be as muscular as you are.”

One. Terrible metaphor to use in our situation. Two. I’m pretty sure his brother would kill in general.

“Er, w-well, I’m not really one for suitors…” I can hear myself stammering. This is pathetic. It’s only by the grace of God that Alfred isn’t back here to witness this.

            “You sound like my Nonno,” Feliciano laughs, and I’m not sure if that’s a good sign. Especially when he...crosses himself. “Bless his old, gross heart.”

            “Isn’t your grandfather alive?”

            “Yeah,” he shrugs, “I’m crossing myself _because_ he’s alive.”

            I have never in my life vouched for my understanding (rather, my lack thereof) of Catholics nor Italians, and I do not plan to yet. Feliciano seems to think he’s made a joke. I attempt a laugh. Feliciano looks uncomfortable. Fantastic.

            “Uh,” Feliciano laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his neck, “So, uh. Maybe I should get going. It seems busy out there, and you’ve got dishes, right?”

            I had forgotten about that completely. “Er, right, yeah. Dishes. I-Well, if you wanted to stay you could--”

            “No, really! It’s okay,” Feliciano says, holding up his arms, “I just...wanted to make sure everyone was alright, and it looks like you’re all doing okay, and I’d rather not interrupt work…”

            “Alfred interrupts me constantly,” I say, “But, er. You’d be watching me wash dishes for at least a few more hours. If you’re alright with that? I could walk you home.”

            He seems to perk at that. “That would be nice. The, um. Walking home thing. I’m not sure dishes are all that nice, but I’m sure they’re fun with you!”

            Somehow that felt forced.

            “Oh, hey, Ludwig?” Feliciano says, and I can see him leaning forward.

            My heart races. Perhaps I overexerted myself during dishes. Or I’ve started having heart palpitations. His hand reaches for my cheek before I can notify him that I may be having stroke. Can’t be because he’s said my name. Nor that he’s leaning forward. There’s no time for that when I’m clearly undergoing stress.

            His fingers graze my face gently. “You had something on your cheek.”

            “Your hand,” I muster.

            His eyes crinkle when he laughs. “Good one. You’ve actually got a sense of humor somewhere in there?”

            I can hear Alfred’s whistling from yards away, and have no time to tell Feliciano to cease and desist before he walks in the door, dishes in hand. Some sort of rendition of “You Are My Sunshine,” is coming from his mouth. I cringe. If I close my eyes, perhaps he won’t see me.

            “Lud, kissing instead of dishing? Seriously?”

            God. Dammit.

 

           

           

           

 

 

           

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

I walked Feliciano home that afternoon, as promised, despite knowing he most likely wanted nothing to do with me after the incident with Alfred walking in on us. Not to say there was anything to walk in on. He was...simply wiping something from my cheek. And laughing at a joke I _clearly_ meant to make. That’s what friends do, isn’t it? Nothing out of the ordinary, if you ask me. The only thing out of line was Alfred.

            Regardless of Alfred’s clear deficiency in the sensitivity department, and his reaction to the situation (or lack thereof, excuse me), the walk home wasn’t...terrible. Awkward, yes. Terrible, no. Well. I haven’t explained yet. As your narrator, I should leave that decision up to you.

 Feliciano seemed to enjoy company. That is to say, he kept up the conversation as I nodded in places I thought appropriate. I was listening, of course, it’s hard _not_ to listen to a voice like Feliciano’s.

            Er. Because it’s. Loud. That’s what I meant. Demands attention.

            Which I was of course _paying_ and not finding myself staring as he walked a bit in front of me. It’s particular the way the sunlight catches his hair, though, I wonder if he’s aware of the way he looks when he--

            Erm. Perhaps I should get on to recapping the walk home.

            Mrs. Jones seemed to think he deserved compensation for bringing us food from the pizzeria, so she sent him along with a few rolls and sweets. (She didn’t mention I had made them. I’m not sure if that was an act of mercy on her part, or she didn’t deem it important.) I did my best not to mention the severity of the damage the cookies were taking as Feliciano swung the bag, but in retrospect, I don’t think he’s the sort of person who cares about those things. He’s a particular sort of dangerous.

            We were nearly there, back around the shops Amelia had pointed out previously, (Feliciano frowned when I explained her joke. Didn’t think I was very much like sauerkraut. I’m not sure if he was referring to the smell or my general personality. Let’s hope for both.) when he stopped me. Or, rather, stopped himself, and then by default, I stopped alongside him. “Ludwig,” he said, “I’m really glad you’re here.”

            My first thought was “Standing on the sidewalk in the slums of New York City?” but I bit back my sarcasm and asked, “Why?”

            If I wasn’t mistaken, for the first time since I’d know him, he looked honestly sheepish. “Well, it’s just--really the only friend I’ve got is my brother, if you don’t count my Nonno,” he muttered something that sounded like “And I try not to,” and continued, “And I know we could’ve met at a better time but--I’ve never had someone believe in me like you do. Even if that seems...melodramatic.”

            “It’s my job,” I said, wondering if it hadn’t just gotten warmer outside, and also when I’d accepted this as my “job” after so many days of refusing it.

            Feliciano chuckled softly, “That’s true.”

            He was silent for a moment, staring up at the sky, squinting. “Nonno’s always said he’s believed in me too but...his way of believing in me is a little bit more like believing in himself. I know he’s got good intentions, and he’s a good person, but I’m never going to be like him. Not really.”

            He sighed, and turned to me with a smile, “Sorry, I’m being gloomy, aren’t I?”

            “No,” I said, “You’re fine.”

            “You really don’t talk much, do you?”

            I shrugged. In my head I do, I thought,and that perhaps this sentiment would relay itself to Feliciano. He didn’t seem to notice. “I talk when I need to,” I said, “If that makes sense.”

            “And now?”

            It wasn’t that I didn’t need to speak. If anything, I was frustrated with my lack of words than not. I couldn’t seem to calculate the right things to say, couldn’t think properly. “Flustered, I think.”

            I could feel the heat trickle to my ears. Shouldn’t have said that. Feliciano didn’t seem as though he was going to chide me for it. It was almost as if he understood, or that it put him at ease. “My grandfather,” I said, noticing that I was maintaining eye contact with the pavement, “He’s a bit like yours. I was always expected to act the way he did.”

            Feliciano hummed, “Do you?”

            “I don’t think so,” I said, “I worry that I do, sometimes. But I think that’s what makes the difference.”

            “He wasn’t a good man, then?” Feliciano said, and I could feel his eyes on me.

            I mulled that one over for a moment and said, “He had good intentions.”

            The silence between us came back, over the hum of the city. We were still standing a few blocks from the pizzeria. Feliciano shuffled. “Ludwig?”

            I looked up. “Hm?”

            “I think you’re both.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “A good man with good intentions,” Feliciano said.

            My throat clenched, and my mouth felt dry. This was what I sensed in Feliciano. The way I read him. The reason I knew there wasn’t any way he could have been responsible. That may sound egotistical, but it’s not just the compliment that gives reason. It’s not because of the way he felt towards me, but the way he felt towards the world. Or, atleast...my assumption about the way he felt towards the world.

            Maybe it was a bit egotistical.

            He was still smiling, soft and serene, patches of stubble near his jawline that he must have missed that morning. I found myself tracing down his face and back up to his mouth. “Ludwig?”

            As I’m retelling this, I suppose I have a responsibility to tell you that I may have jumped slightly.

            I cleared my throat, “Is thank you the right thing to say?”

            Feliciano laughed at that. “I was worried I made you upset. You don’t have to thank me,” he shrugged, “If anything, I should be the one thanking you for coming along. Those men haven’t bothered the store lately, yanno? Maybe you had something to do with it.”

            Somehow I doubted that. If anything, it was Natalya.

            “And, Ludwig?”

            He had shuffled closer now, glancing anxiously at the buildings around us, and then, in one fluid movement, wrapped his arms around me, and held tight. On instinct, I drew back from the sudden contact, (not to say it wasn’t appreciated, just...alarming) and, for lack of a better word, sputtered, “Feliciano?”

            I could feel his little breath of laughter against my shirt, “Sorry,” he pulled back, “I can walk myself from here if you need to get going-”

            “Uh,” I said.

            Eloquent.

            He looked down at the pavement, kicking at the ground, and I noticed there was something to his expression that said more than his voice. When I didn’t respond, he let out a small laugh once more, and said, “I’ll see you!,” turning to leave.

            Before I could retort, he had bounded off down the sidewalk in retreat.

            Which brings us to the present time.

            Staring down at the empty glass in front of me.

            “Are you planning on sitting there the entire night?” Alfred says, looking at me over his glasses. I think he’s been shining the same spoon for fifteen minutes, honestly, and this isn’t the first time he’s asked me a question I haven’t responded to with more than a yes, no, or guttural grunt.

            “Might,” I say, glancing up at him.

            Alfred scoffs, “Well, if it means anything, think you’d do better to wipe that glass then try melting it with that glare of yours. What’re you so mad about?”

            I hadn’t been aware I was glaring. “Thinking.”

            Alfred looks incredulous. “Uh huh,” he says, “D’you ever think about looking less like you’re going to clock a guy when you’re doing that?”

            “Hadn’t really crossed my mind,” I shoot back, picking my rag back up, “How many more glasses?”

            “About an hour of work if you keep going at that rate,” Alfred says, “You gonna tell me what’s bothering you, or should I call Amelia down to force it out of you?”

            Apparently Amelia had told Alfred about the wake-up call ordeal. Honestly, it was more likely Alfred had complained to her in the first place, and she had resolved to do something about it.

            And, normally, I would usually succumb to Alfred’s pleads and tell him what exactly was on my mind, if not with minor hesitation, but this was a bit different, and I wasn’t entirely sure of the situation myself. That is to say, I couldn’t really speak for Feliciano’s feelings, and I generally had absolutely no idea where my feelings were at any given moment. On top of that, we had the facts of being a German immigrant living in a household due to the generosity of a hardworking American family, which was also quite a bit taboo at present time...and I…Honestly, this was sounding exactly like the last situation that caused a riff between Alfred and I.

            Regardless, the point is that I couldn’t cause any more trouble for the Jones family.

            Alfred’s hand waved impatiently in front of my face, “Are you still in there?”

            I hate it when he does that. “Yes,” I say, absentmindedly rubbing a glass, “Just thinking.” 

            Alfred looks impatient with me. I wonder if he’s ever used his inner monologue in his entire life. Apparently not right now, at the very least, considering his tactic involves staring at me with his arms crossed and eyebrows furrowed so hard that his glasses are slipping bit by bit from his ears. I sigh. “It’s about earlier.”

            “No foolin’?” Alfred says. He’s gotten unfortunately better at sarcasm.

            I glance up at him, “ _No_ , I’m just not sure if I should say anything. It’s not like it’s necessary for me to want to tell you something I don’t even understand myself--”

            “You know,” Alfred says, pulling up a stool, “ _You know_ , I don’t know if you know this, but the point of having a friend is to _talk with them about the shit you don’t understand._ Talk things out. That sort of thing. _”_

            I don’t respond, and he says, “If it’s about Feliciano again--”

            _“_ And if it is?,” I respond quickly.

            Alfred stops to stare at me for a moment, and rubs his face, “Then chances are you’re being an idiot. Lud, _how many times_ have I told you about what was bothering me?”

            I look at him skeptically, “Don’t act like you’re any better. You go around pretending things just bounce off of you until you snap. I _know_ you.”   

            Alfred smiles sheepishly, but fights it down, “Don’t turn this on me. This is about you.”

            “Well, you can’t give examples when they obviously aren’t relevant to the situation--”

            “I can’t even tell if you’re bluffing to redirect the conversation or if you really just can’t stop yourself.”

            Someone’s observation skills are getting better, “Both, really.”

            “That sarcasm doesn’t miss a beat does it?” Alfred says, “ _Jesus_. Okay, fine. Listen. I know I made a few jokes, but it honestly--if there’s something going on between you two, I don’t care. And I mean that in the nicest way possible.”

            “I didn’t say it was about--”

            “You didn’t have to,” Alfred says, “And you don’t, really. I’m just. Saying that if you ever feel like you want to, er...discuss it, I’m not going to run away screaming to the nearest priest.”

            There was something very touching to me about this situation, and I honestly wanted to kick myself in the ass for it. _Honestly._ Regardless, it wasn’t as if I had assumed Alfred would react any other way...disregarding all the times I...doubted him. He doesn’t have to know about that.

            “I would say thank you but I feel as though that would confirm your suspicions,” I say, “Actually, even saying that would confirm your suspicions…”  

            Alfred shrugs, “Like I said, I don’t care. If you need help, you know, sorting things out, I’m gonna suggest you take it up with yourself. Seems like no one really knows you better than you do. At least, around here. I mean, I’ll listen, obviously but...you know me. I’m not really knowledgeable in the whole dating scene, you know?”

            I nod. “It just seems...foolish. Worrying about this sort of thing in the middle of a case that _I_ am responsible for.”

            “Yeah, maybe, but you know what they say about times of crisis,” Alfred says, “And it’s ‘ _we_ ’ not ‘ _I_ ’.”

            “It’s slightly more ‘I’, Alfred.”

            “If you want a reason to keep repeating ‘I’ I’ll punch you in yours.”

            “Duly noted.”

            Alfred shoots me a smile, and I return the favor, albeit smaller, sitting in the silence of the dark diner. It isn’t until we finish the remaining glasses when he speaks up again.

            “So,” Alfred says, quietly.

            “So?”

            “Did you actually kiss him?”

            I sputter. First and foremost, that is one, none of his business, and two, obviously breaches the verbal code we had _just made moments before_. What is the point of setting up rules if you’re obviously going to be breaking them? “No,” I snap, “ _No_ , I have not, and for your information, _I really don’t think it matters for you to know_ \--”

            “Uh, it definitely matters if you’re doing it _on the job_ , Lud,” Alfred says, an annoying cockiness returning, “You can’t just go kiss a dish instead of washing one.”

            “ _Please stop referring to him like that._ ”

“At least let me have some fun with this, Lud,” he says standing up to stretch.

            “At the misfortune of myself? I’d rather not--”

            Alfred looks surprised, “Ludwig--”

            You would think he could handle laying off a bit, “What? Alfred, really, I’m just--”

            “No,” Alfred says, standing from his seat, “Wait a minute, look. Isn’t that--?”

            “What are you on about?” I say, turning in my seat, “We’ve already put up the closed sign, haven’t we--”

            I shot up from my seat.

            A woman stood at the door, clutching her waist, a hand weakly resting on the glass. The light reflected from the diner shone dimly against her face, and in the shadows, I thought I could make out wet, glossy marks, trickling from her forehead. Alfred, apparently not realizing we are in a building full of people, shouts “Natayla!” from beside me, and lunges his way over the counter as I follow.

            Alfred pulls open the door, reaching to support her as I watch on. She seems to hold up a hand to keep him back, but it drops weakly as she leans into his chest. In the light, it’s clear to see she’s been injured, especially about the face, as her right eye has swollen, and the blood seems to be trickling from a gash on her forehead. Natalya briefly struggles against Alfred’s arms as he attempts to hold her, but softens.

            Quietly, she mumbles something that I can’t understand, “Izvinite,” and stares listlessly at the floor, resting against Alfred’s chest.

            Alfred speaks up first, “Who did this to you?”

            Natalya’s eyes clench, lips pursed, “I came here for help, not questions.”

            “Natalya,” I say, “If they’re looking for you, we need to know--”

            She laughs, bitterly, and turns to stare at me, “They are always looking for me.”

            The Braginsky’s, then. There’s no reason to say it. I nod, and Alfred glances between the two of us, confused, but seems to drop the subject. “We need to get you cleaned up,” Alfred says, “Is it alright if I carry you?”

            Natalya grimaces, “I will walk myself.”

            “You know how many stairs there are,” Alfred says, “I’m carrying you.”

            Before Natalya can retort, Alfred has picked her up gingerly. She mumbles once more, but seems to accept the fate, and curls into him.

            I follow behind Alfred up the stairs to Gilbert and I’s flat, hoping that Gilbert has done his normal routine of falling asleep post-work. When we reach the door, the lights are off, except for the small desk lamp in the front. Natalya stretches to see. It’s odd, but when she sits in Alfred’s arms, you can see her for how young she is. No more older than Alfred could be. Still just a child. She notices that I’m staring, and turns to hide her face.

            As Alfred lays her down on the couch, I move to grab the first aid kit from the bathroom. “I can clean _myself_ ,” Natalya calls weakly.

            I can hear Alfred’s impatient snort from the other room, and he says, “When’s the last time you let someone else do something for you?”

            She’s quiet for a minute. Considering what she’s asked of us, it’s safe to say that may have been the one and only time. And now…

            “Thank you for trusting us,” I say softly, coming back with rag and peroxide in hand.  
            Natalya doesn’t reply. Alfred reaches for my hands, “Let me do it.”

            And, as Alfred-like as could be, he clumsily pushes Natalya’s hair from her wound, and dabs, rougher than needed. Natalya’s eyebrows furrow. “Lightly,” I remind him. He doesn’t seem to notice.

            “What did they do to you?” I ask.

            Natalya stares up at the ceiling, “I would think that would be obvious.”

            Fair point. “Why?”

            “They did what all humans do,” Natalya says, closing her eyes, “Humans are a series of misfortunes and hardships. One right after another. And I am no different.”

            Alfred stiffens, and I watch as he wipes Natalya’s cheek with his thumb. She grabs for his wrist. “Don’t.”

            “You’re crying,” Alfred says.

            He would have done the same for Amelia. I can see his brotherly instincts making it difficult to not brush away her tears, as he looks down at her, worriedly. If she wasn’t so tired, I wouldn’t put it past her to leap from the couch and give him a few scratches as well. Something tells me she’s not fond of nor used to being touched, especially not in a delicate, or as deliciate as Alfred can be, way.

            “You can sleep in my room, Natalya,” I say, before those two can say anything else, “I can take the couch. I’ll put fresh sheets on for you.”

            Her eyes are still closed, and her hand is slipping from Alfred’s wrist. She mumbles something, and Alfred leans closer to hear. “She says she’s staying right here,” Alfred says quietly, and looks over at me, “Hey, Lud--”

            “Yeah. I’ll get the blankets.”

            “Thanks.”

            I’m not entirely sure how I’m going to explain Alfred, Natalya, and myself sleeping on the floor of the flat to Gilbert in the morning, but maybe I won’t have to.


	7. Chapter 7

“Guten Morgen, Sonnenschein.”

            I blink back the sleep, and see Gilbert peering down at me, a comical grin on his face. It’s far too early for this conversation. My eyes close, “Nicht wirklich. Du bist hier.”

            Gilbert snorts, “You’re always mean in the morning. Are you going to tell me why the Hell you’re on the floor? You and Alfred finally discover beer?”

            I squint at him, “You’re still dirty from the factory.”

            “Yeah, way to avoid the question,” Gilbert says, and gestures meekly at Natalya on the couch, “I can’t shower with a lady in the house. Did you chase it with vodka or something? I told you to stay away from that shit.”

            “We weren’t drinking, Gilbert,” I murmur, “You know Alfred, he hates the idea of it. The hell time is it anyway? Five?”

            “Fifteen till eight, actually,” Gilbert says, “What happened?”

            Yet another fantastic conversation on why we shouldn’t have gotten ourselves into this mess awaits me if I answer, but I know Gilbert isn’t going to believe any lie I come up with. Not to mention I don’t exactly want to lie to Gilbert. “She came to the diner last night. Injured. Alfred didn’t want to have her out here alone.”

            Gilbert whistles low, “Someone mug her?”

            I’m nearly sure he knows my answer mentally is something along the lines of “No, you idiot,” or “If you’re trying to give me opportunities to lie for the sake of yourself they aren’t going to work.”

            “She didn’t say,” Which is the honest answer, “But she hinted that she knew whomever did it.”

            He side-eyes the couch, “They don’t know she’s here, do they?”

            Chances are they do, but I doubt they would be so bold as to march into the diner and demand her back. I’m almost sure she’s not exactly welcomed back at the moment either. So I answer, “No. I don’t think so.”

            Gilbert stares at me for a moment, reading my face. I turn to look at the couch for myself. Natalya’s still in the same position she was last night, leaning back onto the arm and curling in towards herself. Alfred’s sprawled next to her on the floor, one arm reaching towards the couch, and the other near my leg. I have absolutely no idea how that could possibly be comfortable. His glasses are askew as well. No wonder Gilbert thought he had gotten into alcohol. Idiot.

            “So?”

            “Hm?”

            “What are you going to do once she wakes up?” Gilbert says, “Are you always this fucking slow in the morning?”

            I can see him worriedly glance again at the couch to make sure he didn’t wake Natalya himself by swearing. I cannot believe I’m related to the equivalent of a priest. “I’m not sure. That’s up to her, honestly. We can’t force her to stay here.”

            Gilbert furrows, “You’re not going to let her go back to that--?”

            “We can’t _kidnap_ her, Gilbert,” I groan, “And I _know_ that. I know she’s better off here than there. But there’s no way of forcing her. _She_ has to make that decision.”

            “We can’t let ‘er go back, though, Lud--”

            I jump slightly. Goddamn these Jones’ and their penchant for startling me when I’m half asleep.

            Alfred’s awake now. Sort of. He’s getting there, from what I can tell, squinting at me as if he hasn’t realized his glasses are above his eyebrows and knocking his forehead. “See, he agrees with me,” Gilbert says, gesturing.

            How dare he use my sympathies for Alfred against me. “ _I_ agree with you both, but it still stands that we can’t force her--”

            Alfred sits up, rubbing at his eyes, “We can reason with her, can’t we? You’re good at that, Lud. Reasoning.”

            Flattery. “ _Whether I am or not_ ,” I say, “I’m telling you it’s up to her--”

            “ _Shut up_.”

            Alfred and Gilbert visibly tighten. Natayla hasn’t moved from her position, nor opened her eyes, but she’s awake. With all the talking, I wouldn’t be surprised if she had been awake for quite some time now. Morons. Talking about holding her against her will right in front of her.

            Her lips thin, “I will be staying.”

            Alfred hoots, and punches the air, and I can see the smallest smile on Natalya’s face, before her eyes shoot open and she asks, “As long as that’s alright?”

            “Of course it is!” Alfred says, and Natalya flinches slightly when his hands grasp her own.

            Gilbert looks a little wary, but shrugs, “The more the merrier. Just--keep your girl things concealed, alright?”

            “Gilbert’s weak at heart,” I quip, “He’d faint the moment he saw an ankle.”

            “ _Verpiss dich.”_

“Ich liebe dich auch--”

            “Do they always do this?” Natalya asks.

            Alfred laughs, “Only when they’re in a good mood.”

            I resent that.

            “You’re going to need to change, aren’t you?” I ask, eying the dirt on Natalya’s dress.

            She’s touching the cut on her cheek gingerly, running a finger over it. I haven’t seen her look any more than melancholic about this situation, now that I think about it, and if anything she looks...jaded. “I didn’t bring anything with me,” she says quietly, “It is fine.”

            “Amelia wouldn’t mind lending you something,” Alfred says, “You’d feel better once you wash up, wouldn’t you?”

            He’s laying that older brother voice on thick this morning. However, he has a point. Amelia wouldn’t mind. In fact, I’m sure she’d be terrifyingly gleeful at the chance to dress Natalya up in her clothes. I’m having a hard time imagining Natalya in a button-down dress with Amelia’s usual red bow regardless, even if Natalya _should_ be dressing like that at her age. Even Mrs. Jones dresses a bit more vibrantly than Natalya does.

            Natalya doesn’t seem all too thrilled at the idea either. “Pinning up my hair will do fine.”

            “You’ve got blood caked near your forehead,” Alfred says.

            “That’s nothing new,” Natalya retorts, “I will be pinning it up.”

            Alfred’s eyes narrow, “You need to wash up.”

            Gilbert’s looking from Alfred to me as if he’s expecting me to have some sort of knowledge on how to deal with the situation. I have absolutely no idea why he assumes I would have more experience with women than he would. _Honestly._ He’s supposed to be the older brother figure here. I offer him a shrug. Gilbert sighs, “If she doesn’t want to wash up--”

            “She _needs_ to wash up,” Alfred says, eyes never leaving Natalya, “She shouldn’t be sitting around covered in dirt and dried blood when we have a perfectly good shower room!”

            He holds up his hands, “I’ve said all I can.” and sinks down into the armchair. Weak.

            “Do not talk to me like I am some young girl you can boss around,” Natalya snaps, “I will wash when I am ready.”

            “Why not _now_?”

            “Why are you so _insistent_?”

            “ _Because_!” Alfred huffs, “I want you to care about yourself! Don’t you think you deserve it?”

            There is a part of me that is always appalled and amazed when Alfred says things that are both not something you should bring up to someone’s face amongst a group of people but are still positively true. It’s as if his inability to read the atmosphere of the situation is both a blessing and a curse. I’m not yet sure what Natalya thinks of it, but by the look of her startled expression, she’s not sure either.

            The back of the couch is suddenly the focus of her attention as well. “Alfred,” I caution, “She’s free to clean up when she’s ready. We still need Amelia to wake up before she decides to shower anyway.” Hopefully he’s picked up on the underlying message to go easier on her in my voice, but I can’t be too sure.

            Alfred eyes flicker away from her, “Yeah. I’ll--go wake ‘Meila.”

            He stands up, hesitates a moment, and walks out of the room, closing the door softly behind him. Natalya’s chin rests on her arms, folded atop her knees. She’s fiddling with a strand of hair between her fingers. “I’m sorry about that,” I say, “He--has good intentions.”

            She doesn’t respond, but her shoulders stiffen. Quietly, she murmurs, “Did you know your hair keeps growing after you die?”

            I’ve never met someone this unintentionally intimidating since the last time I looked in a mirror.

            “I--No, I didn’t know that.”

            She’s yanking at that strand now, slightly, not enough to hurt, “I should cut mine off to give it room to grow.”

            I’m trying to ignore the fact Gilbert just crossed himself out of the corner of my eye. “D-Do you plan on dying in the near future?” I ask, not particularly wanting the answer.           

            There’s no answer to that, but she looks me dead in the eye, blonde hairs still tangled in between her fingers, and says, “It was Ivan.”

            Over Gilbert’s sudden bout of choking on air, I fumble out, “He did this to you?”

            “He had it done,” Natalya says, and pauses before adding, “In front of my older sister.”

            I can feel Gilbert’s eyes on me, and it registers that the very same thing Natalya went through could have very well already happened to myself, Alfred, or Amelia. Oddly enough, Gilbert doesn’t seem capable of rubbing an “I-Told-You-So,” in my face. Whether that’s out of fear of Natalya or understanding the situation, I’m not sure. Either way, it’s better he can’t. I’m not exactly fond of being told I’ve put someone in danger by helping someone else out of it.

            Not only that, but if Ivan’s sunk as low as to strike back against Natalya, who’s to say he’ll contain himself from sending someone Feliciano’s way?

            “He found out about what I was doing,” Natalya says, “Interfering without his permission. He thought I was coming here to stop you from helping that man. Vargas. When he found out that wasn’t the case, he was angry.”

            “He’s your brother, isn’t he?” Gilbert says, looking particularly disgusted, “Who the hell does that to their own sister?”

            “We have different mothers,” Natalya says, “It’s always been a fragile relationship. I have done nothing but tend to my brother all my life. Look up to him like a dog would to its master. He was always very young at heart. I--I did not expect his childlike cruelty to be directed towards me in this way.”

            “Beating the hell out of you is childlike?” Gilbert spits.

            Natalya’s eyes are slits, “He does not realize the effect of his actions. He is a child. My brother sees nothing wrong in tossing those he does not need aside. To him, I am a broken toy. But I do not blame him. That is how he was raised.”

            “Psychologically raised to be an abuser or not,” I say, “It’s not an excuse. It’s a reason. And something that should be fixed.”

            “He can’t go around treating his own damn family like puppets,” Gilbert says with a scowl, “Expecting them not to feel when they’re treated like dog shit. Who the fuck does his guy think he is?”

            Gilbert is absolutely not watching his mouth anymore. I’d find it funny, but this conversation isn’t particularly humorous. “You don’t understand,” Natalya says, “He is kind. Loving. He is just--a child.”

            “He’s manipulative,” I say, “You’re not his tool, Natalya. You’re his sister.”

            “There is nothing wrong,” she says, her voice wavering, “With being both.”

            She burrows into her arms again. Gilbert falls silent as well, but the scowl never leaves his face. The next few moments are silent until Alfred returns with Amelia in tow, looking as if she’s been told there’s a new dog waiting for her in the flat. As expected, I suppose, and not a bad metaphor either.

            “Natalya!” Amelia calls, dashing past me to throw herself onto the couch beside Natalya, “You’re back! It’s been awhile!”

            Alfred has a stack of what has to be every article of clothes Amelia has ever owned in his arms, looking absolutely exhausted by what I’m sure was Amelia’s doing. He slumps beside me on the floor, and mutters, “Never again.”

            Natalya’s still keeping herself far from any physical contact, as Amelia leans in to inspect her wounds. “You got pretty banged up, didn’t you?” Amelia asks, “That’s okay. We can borrow some of Ma’s make up! I know how to use it, you know. She taught me.”

            I can’t help but feel sorry for Natalya’s round of not one but two Jones’ siblings in a day, as Amelia takes it upon herself to start prodding at Natalya’s cuts and scrapes. Somehow, she looks a little more comfortable with Amelia than she did Alfred. Maybe it reminds her of her sister.

            “Stop looking at her like a doll, ‘Melia,” Alfred says, sounding put-off, “Pick a dress or something.”

            “I can’t pick a dress for her, _dummy_ ,” Amelia says, rolling her eyes, “Men. How about you hold them up and Natalya will tell us which one of ‘em she likes best? Chop-chop!”

            I can see from the look on Alfred’s face that he has absolutely no intention of doing that. “Actually,” I say, “I think Alfred should come with me.”

            “Where the hell are you’re going?” Gilbert asks.

            “The Braginsky’s,” I reply, “So long as Natalya gives us the address.”

            “ _What?_ ” Alfred and Gilbert demand in unison.

            Natalya’s head snaps up as well. She looks at me worriedly, reading my face. “We’re just going to talk,” I explain, “I think it’s important for the investigation to finally have a word with him. And maybe, if we do this correctly, we can stop him from hurting Natalya any more than he already has. The sooner we figure out who our killer was, the sooner we get ourselves out of this situation.”

            “Look at her!” Gilbert shouts, pointing at Natalya's face, “Look what he did to her! His own sister! What the fuck do you think they’re doing to do to you, huh? Give you a complimentary mint and tell you thanks for visiting? Do you have any goddamn idea what you’re saying?”

            “We can’t just sit here and wait for him to make a move,” I say, “He doesn’t know where Natalya is right now. He doesn’t have a clue we’re keeping her safe. He will know, however, if we give him an opportunity to send out people to find her. The sooner the better.”

Alfred’s chewing at his lip. “Maybe he’s right, Gilbert,” he says, “Maybe he’s wore out from what he did to Natalya and won’t bother with us. So long as we don’t piss him off, shouldn’t we be alright?”

“He’s not going to like you finding him,” Natalya says, “He’s going to be defensive from the moment you are there until the moment you leave. But...I do not think he will hurt you. Unless you hurt him first.”

I don’t like the way that implies Natalya’s hurt Ivan somehow with what she’s done, but pressing it won’t do any good. “We’ll just ask him about what he knows. Tell him we’re trying to find the person who killed Mr. Laurinaitis, and offer information about the Vargas’. I doubt he’ll believe it, but it makes him think we’re on the same side.”

            “And if he doesn’t want to hear any of it?” Gilbert says.

            I shake my head, “Then he doesn’t. But I doubt he’ll be able to resist, with the way Natalya describes him. Alfred and I are strong, Gilbert. We’ll be able to make it out just fine. I promise.”

            Gilbert looks at me, swallows, and says, “Just--don’t be a hero, alright kid? You either,” he jabs a finger at Alfred, who rubs his neck sheepishly.

            “We’ll run like hell, Gilbert, we promise,” Alfred says. I nod.

            Amelia sniffles from the couch, and quickly scrambles to cover it up, “I-I’ll stay here with Natalya. Someone has to keep her safe too! And we’ll make sure she feels just as good as she looks, won’t we?”

            Natalya blinks at Amelia, before giving her a curt nod, and staring morosely at Alfred and I. “The human heart can squirt blood several meters when punctured,” she says softly, “I hope you never have to see it in person.”

            I think that’s her personal way of telling us to be safe, but God if it couldn’t be less graphic and absolutely terrifying. Alfred looks a bit green. “That’s so _neat_!” Amelia says cheerfully, “You’re very smart, aren’t you?”

            Women are also absolutely terrifying _thank God_ Ivan was not an Ivana.

            “I’ll stay here with--” Gilbert pauses to shoot the girls a look, “With these two. Unless you want me to join you--”

            “The more people the more suspicious,” I say, “Not that I wouldn’t want you to come.” _Nor save him from these two._

            “Right, yeah,” Gilbert says, a nervous tone to his voice, “Suspicious.”

            I stand, “We should get it over with. It’s nearly ten now, isn’t it?”

            Alfred checks his watch, “Nine fifty.”

            “The address is the same as the one on the card I gave Alfred that night,” Natalya says, “Do you still have it?”

            He pulls out his wallet, and slips the card from one of the pockets, waving it, “Wouldn’t lose it.”

            “Don’t lose your fingers either,” Gilbert chides, “I need a cigarette--”

            “That’ll kill you, you know,” Alfred says, an odd grin on his face/

            Gilbert cuffs his arm, “Shut up, kid. You keep him safe, you hear me?”

            “I’ll project your daughter with my life, sir,” Alfred says, giving a lazy salute.

            “You _both_ need to shut up,” I say, “We’ll be fine.”

            Gilbert claps a hand on my back, and I manage a small smile, before I follow Alfred out the door, waving goodbye.

 

\----------------

 

            “Shouldn’t be far from here,” Alfred says, glancing down at the card.

We’ve been walking for nearly an hour, already passing the Vargas’ restaurant. For a moment, I wondered if it would be worth it to stop in and tell Feliciano what we were doing before Alfred tugged me along. I’m not sure what I would have said, honestly. It would only worry him more.

“Another block or so?”

“Yeah,” Alfred adjusts his glasses, and glances up at a nearby building, “I think so. You okay?”

            “Fine,” I reply shortly. I know he has a reason for asking, but I’m not intent on indulging him.

            “You sure?”

            “Positive.”

            He kicks a rock across the pavement, “Well. If you want my honest opinion,” I don’t, “I think you’re lying.”

            I can feel the extended metaphor coming.

 “D’you know, up in the air force back during the war, the pilots had to rely on constant communication and strategies to make sure their attacks were actually useful. One wrong move, and you could knock your own friend out of the sky on accident,” Alfred glances back at me, “The Luftwaffe, you know, the Germans, had horrible problems with bombing strategies up there, and would’ve damn well been more useful had they actually communicated. Lucky for us, right?”

            “Are you seriously comparing me to the Luftwaffe?”

            Alfred laughs, “I’m just saying, Lud. And I know I say this a lot but...we’re partners. You can say what’s on your mind.”

            “Duly noted,” I say. It’s always back to this with us. I can’t help but feel that’s my fault, or, at the very least, mine and his inability to read the situation. He’s always forcing things out of me, for better or worse.

            “What if this Ivan guy’s literally some big ol’ toddler?” Alfred says, squinting at building signs, “Do you think he’ll throw his blocks at us? With a little binky in his mouth?”

            “Mentally, I’m sure that might just be the equivalent of what he wants to do,” I say, “I’m assuming he’s going to throw words instead, for the time being. Groups like that tend to deal with a more psychological approach before getting physical.”

            “So they play with their food before they eat it, is what you’re saying. Like a cat,” Alfred grimaces, “I’ve always been more of a dog person.”

            “Likewise.”

            Alfred full-stops, “I think we’re here.”

            There’s a tall building that, if it hadn’t been for the straggle of people hanging around the outside, would have looked completely abandoned. Minor electricity, from what I could see, considering the sunlight had no trouble finding gaps in broken windows and holes. Somehow, I imagined the place to be a bit cleaner. I suppose that’d only attract more attention, but if you’re going to be a foothold of organized crime, wouldn’t you want to appear...organized?

 “You’re sure?”

            I don’t necessarily want to walk into this place just to find out we were incorrect. The people outside were beginning to take notice of our presence, and looked less than excited about our arrival.

            “Says to take the alley way entrance,” Alfred says, glancing at the card, “Right down there.”

            A disorganized crime house and a pathway that leads through a damp alleyway. The Braginsky’s had no respect for the possible aesthetic chances they had in front of them. _At least_ dust once and a while.

            And yet. Neither of us moves.

“What are you doing?” Alfred chides, “This was your idea! You go first!”

            “What?” I hiss, “You’re the one who found this place! Aren’t you always talking about being a hero--”

            “Don’t turn it around on me!” Alfred whispers frantically, “You’re the one with all the muscles! They’re already looking at me like I’m some chew-toy for their dogs!”

            “And I _told_ you he’s just going to want to talk to us--When has my reasoning ever been wrong?”

            “Then what’s the problem with you going first, _Mr. Reason_?!”

            A very good counterpoint. Damn him. “Fine,” I mutter, “But if they turn out to attack from behind--”

            “I’m sure you’ll be disappointed about missing out on that,” Alfred says, pushing me along in front of him, “But I promise I won’t enjoy it.”

            Something tells me that was a euphemism for something else.

            With Alfred’s hands firmly pushing me forward along with my steps, we make it to the backdoor of the building. The only thing back there is a small, iron door, with a slide window for glancing out at any newcomers. Annoyingly, I can feel my heart rate increasing, and nearly kick Alfred in the leg when he whispers, “Knock, Lud!”

            My hand falters. There’s a twenty percent chance of whomever is waiting at this door to find no patience in dealing with the two of us and shoot us point blank. Probably not the best statistic to pull from my mind at this point, but it’s my first thought. It would probably do better to be less pessimistic about things when faced with the probability of death.

I knock, twice.

The window slides open. A pair of glasses and eyes, much like Alfred’s own, stare back. “Do you have an appointment with Mr. Braginsky?”     

I’m not sure if his eyes sparkled just now, or if I’m hallucinating. “Er, no,” I say, feeling Alfred stand up behind me to look over my shoulders, “But we’re here to talk to him about--”

“One moment.”

The window slides shut. I wonder if this means he’s going to let us inside, until several clicks sound from behind the door. Alfred shrinks back behind me, “I’ll protect us, Lud!”

“You’re doing a fantastic job of it cowering behind me,” I snap, “Wait, would you?”

Hesitantly, I lean towards the door. The clicking noise has carried on far too long for them to be loading a gun at this point. And then--

“Wait a second, are you typing something?!”

Alfred shoots back up, “I knew it!”

That explains the shaking.

The window slides open again, and the same, oddly sparkling glasses pop back up, “I needed to finish typing our daily morning reports,” it says, matter of factly.

“We’re asking to speak to your boss! You’re part of a mafia, aren’t you? The least you could do is put on some sort of act!”

The eyes appear thoughtful for a moment, “Did you want me to threaten you? I’m busy, you know.”

Apparently it’s hard to find good employees on all spectrums of employment. I can’t believe I’m spending time getting exasperated with a mafia grunt not doing his job properly. “Man,” Alfred whines behind me, “This is gonna be such a lame story to tell ‘Melia later.”

_What, because we weren’t shot point-blank?_

“We’d like to speak with Ivan Braginsky,” I say through gritted teeth, “Can you do that for us, or are you too busy to do your job properly?

“You’re going to keep interrupting me if I don’t,” the glasses say, “Go on ahead. I don’t know why you’d be so eager to talk to _him_.”

How has this man not gotten shot yet.

The door creaks open, and Alfred and I walk inside, cautiously. It closes behind us, and those same glasses glimmer at us from the sudden change in light. “When you see him, tell him I’m finished,” the voice says, it’s back facing us, “I don’t want to be in the same room with him if I don’t have to be.”

Not only can this idiot not do his job, but he’s sending us in just so we can do it for him. “Right,” I say, “Wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.”

“Absolutely!” the voice says, “He’s just to your right, by the way. Through that hallway. Have a nice time!”

Alfred murmurs, “This is a nuthouse,” and I can’t help but agree with him.

The hallway is dark and narrow, lined with portraits I can’t entirely make out. In fact, I’m nearly sure the only reason that idiot was manning the door was simply to be closer to a light source rather than to actually carry out his duties. Something tells me we were far from the sunlit area seen from outside, but the light at the end of the hallway suggested we might get their yet.

The moment we step into the room, sunlight floods our eyes. Alfred leans a hand on my shoulder for support, squinting pasts his glasses as I blink, stunned from the change. As our eyes focus, I notice we’re in some sort of greenhouse. Rows of sunflowers and other green plants are surrounding the room, and overgrown vines have taken to scaling the walls. If not for the reason we were here, and the disorganization of it all, it might be enjoyable. However…

“Oh!”

Yet another disembodied voice calls from the room, coming from nearby rows of sunflowers. “Eduard didn’t tell me we had visitors today!”

“We’re looking for Ivan Braginsky,” Alfred says back, “That guy at the front told us we’d find him here, but he must’ve led us in the wrong direction. You know where we’d find him?”

Alfred’s brashness is both astounding and terrifying. I don’t think he realizes that we’re in the right place. I nudge him, but the man steps out from behind the sunflowers before I can so much as whisper.

In front of us, the six-foot Ivan Braginsky stands, watering can in tote, and some sort of flower printed apron wrapped around his waist. He smiles, eyes crinkling at Alfred, “Ah, da. That would be me!”

Alfred laughs, “You’re kidding! Man, this Braginsky guy has some weird people working for him, right, Lud?”

“He’s not kidding, Alfred,” I whisper.

Alfred stiffens. Ivan hasn’t stopped smiling. Quietly, Alfred murmurs, “Oh.”

I clear my throat, “We’re here to speak with you about the murder of Toris [Laurinaitis](http://hetalia.kitawiki.net/index.php?title=Human_names#Lithuania). My name is Ludwig Beilschmidt. And this is my partner, Alfred F. Jones. Your sister, Natalya Arlovskaya, enlisted our help, and we’re here to share information with you.”

“I know who you are,” Ivan says, waving a hand, “Little one with glasses and rude mouth and bigger one with funny hair and too many muscles. Natalya's new friends. Why are you visiting so early?”

What a charmer. “Like I said,” I say calmly, “We’re here to share information.”

His lips pucker, “Natalya isn’t here though! Isn’t she the one you do the talking to?”

I can see Alfred’s expression darken out of the corner of my eyes. Before he can retort, I answer, “She’s done all she can, to our knowledge. We’ve already visited your prime suspect, and have yet to discover any leads.”

Ivan’s lips pout, and he seems preoccupied with the petals of one of his sunflowers, “Are you saying I was wrong? I send my men to bother the Vargas’ for no reason? That’s a shame.”

From the look on his face, he’s only disappointed that we interrupted that so long ago. “Do you have any other ideas as to who might have done it?”

He taps his chin, little specks of dirt from his gardening gloves flicking off onto his apron, “You are sure it wasn’t Vargas?”

My mind flashes to Feliciano’s face. “Absolutely sure.”

Ivan slides a spade from the table, and points it at me, slowly, “Enough to bet life?”

He laughs the moment my eyes widen, and I can see Alfred shifted towards me, “Small joke!” he says, “Joke between friends. Probably not Vargas then.”

“So,” Alfred says, “Who else?”

Looking as if he’s actually giving this question thought, Ivan sinks into a nearby chair. I stare straight ahead at him, and he looks up, flashing another smile. “Why not ask partner? He looks like he knows.”

Alfred turns to me, eyebrows furrowed. Personally, it’s just a guess, and in my opinion, too easy of one, but it’s what Ivan wants me to say. “You.”

Ivan grins, “Ahh, that’s what I thought you’d say. But, it’s not me,” he raises a gloved hand, “I don’t like to get my hands dirty. Even when working with my friends.”

He’s gesturing to the sunflowers. Alfred looks as though he’s touched wet food during dishwashing duty. “Having something to do with it,” Alfred says, his fists clenching, “Would still make your hands dirty.”

“Who said I did anything?” Ivan says, cocking an eyebrow, “Assumptions are very bad.”

“You had no problem laying a hand on your sister,” Alfred spits out venomously.

Technically, we weren’t supposed to know that, and I can see Ivan’s realization of just how involved we actually are dawn on his face. His smile falters for a moment, but the minute he notices I’m watching, it reappears. “She’s been a bad playmate,” he says simply, twirling the spade in his hands, “It was just fight. Normal for siblings.”

“Like hell it is!” Alfred growls, “You don’t know the first thing about family! She could barely _stand_ when she came to us! She doesn’t even think you’ve done anything wrong--”

The spade in Ivan’s hand hits the wooden table with a thud. “I haven’t.”

Alfred swallows. “You could have killed her.”

“And she is alive,” Ivan says plainly, clearly losing the need to keep up his cheerful persona, “She betrayed our family. We have done worse to smaller offenses.”

“All Natalya did was try to keep an innocent person from dying,” Alfred says lowly, “And you lost your chance. You’re nothing but a sore loser. Don’t blame this on her.”

Ivan’s laugh tinkles, “You think Natalya keeps innocent people from dying?”

I’m not sure I want to know where this is going, nor that I appreciate his tone. He grins once more, “My sister has done very naughty things, comrades. And the fact that she is the one leading you through this _mystery_ is one of them.”

“What do you mean by that?” I ask, eyes narrowed.

“I am sure when she came to ask you for help, she played sad,” Ivan says, “Did she not? Did you think she was mourning a friend’s death?”

My mind flashes back to the night Natalya arrived in our apartment, and the heart on the back of [Laurinaitis](http://hetalia.kitawiki.net/index.php?title=Human_names#Lithuania)’ photo. I had originally thought it was simply a one-sided affection that Natalya had constantly denied, and the remorse on her face that night was nothing but lost chances...but now…

Ivan laughs again, standing up from his chair, “Your friend with the muscles isn’t all brawn after all! He’s figured it out, haven’t you? Who really did this?”

Alfred looks at me, worriedly. I shake my head. I’m not going to jump to any conclusions Ivan leads me to. “She wouldn’t lead us here if that was the answer,” I say, “There’s more to the story. And we’re going to figure it out.”

“Hmm,” Ivan says, amused, “Should be fun then. I missed having friends to play with.”

“Pawns,” I reply, “That’s the word you’re looking for. But we’re neither.”

“Friends has a nicer ring to it,” he says, “I think for now, though, our playdate is over.”

From the looks of Alfred’s face, he’s caught on to the situation, and I can see his clenched fists shaking in aggravation. I pull at his arm, holding him back. “We’ll be leaving then.”

Ivan does nothing but nod, and disappear back into his lines of potted sunflowers.

 

\---------------

“He’s lying,” Alfred says, chucking another rock at the ground.

We’ve stopped a few blocks away at an abandoned lot to regroup, realizing that there was no way for either of us to show up back at the apartment without figuring out what to do with this information. Alfred seems set on denying its existence.

“As much as I would like to believe he’s completely full of shit, Alfred,” I say, watching as he tosses another rock, “We can’t just forget everything he’s told us. There has to be some truth to what he’s said.”

“Yeah?” Alfred says, “Some psychopath with flowers for friends has to be telling the truth somehow? That’s what you’re telling me?”

“I’m not saying Natalya's our suspect,” I say, “But we have to look at the possibility of her being involved somehow. Remember when he said he isn’t one to get his hands dirty?”

“Yeah, remember him pointing a spade at your throat?”

“Alfred, what I’m saying is that there’s a possibility he forced Natalya into being involved with the murder,” I say, “And if that’s the case, she may have come to us with the hope of someone figuring out that Ivan was behind the entire operation.”

Apparently that’s not the answer he wants either. “So what do we do from here? Walk up to the apartment and ask, “Hey Natalya, have you ever killed a man?” Sure that’ll go over well.”

“She’s the one who wanted us to visit the place to begin with. She would have realized that Ivan most likely would have said what he did. Natalya knows him better than either of us.”

“And if she did it? Do we turn her in?”

I hadn’t thought about that. Turning Natalya in doesn’t seem as though it would be the morally correct thing to do after all she may have done to lead us to this very point. Lawfully, we should--but I doubt anyone in that family wants to see someone who murdered their own in jail. Dead would probably be preferable. “I think we would have to let her decide that.”

“What about Feliciano?”

“We should stop by on the way back. Let him know what’s happened,” I rub my temples, “If you don’t mind.”

Alfred’s stopped throwing rocks now, and scuffs his shoe around in the dirt. “Let’s get going.”

We reach the Vargas’ restaurant, and I peer up into Feliciano’s window just in time to see his head peek through the curtains and quickly disappear. The door swings open shortly, and in a huff, he breathes out, “Did something happen?”

I’m not sure why he’s so flustered, or...why I’m flustered, to be honest. Alfred pipes up from behind me, “We have news on the case.”

Feliciano sighs, “Ah, I thought--Nonno and Lovino aren’t here right now. So I was--I thought--something might have happened to them.”

“They left you here by yourself?” I ask, walking past Feliciano and into the restaurant.

“Nonno closed up shop for today to go shopping,” Feliciano says, closing the door behind Alfred, “We do it once in a while to restock on some heavier supplies. Nonno’s fine then? Lovino?”

“As far as we know,” Alfred says, “We’re here about Natalya.”

“Who?”

Alfred looks at me with an expression that reads _“All this thought about Feliciano and you didn’t even tell him the name of our ‘client’?”_

In my defense, I was preoccupied. “Natalya is the woman that came to us about the murder,” I say.

Alfred groans as he eases himself into a booth, “And we were just having a talk with Ivan Braginsky about her--”

“You went to talk to him?” Feliciano says, staring at me, “Without telling me?”

Alfred’s glancing over at me with a smug look on his face. “I-I didn’t want to worry you,” I stammer out, “Besides, nothing would have happened--”

Feliciano’s cheeks puff, “Did you forget who they’ve been harassing all this time? Do you know the things they’ve done to us? And you just thought you could walk in there and nothing would happen?”

“I did think there was a reasonable chance of us getting shot--”

“Turned out to be a typewriter, actually--” Alfred interrupts.

“You thought there was a reasonable chance of getting shot and you still went!” Feliciano says, pacing, “Why didn’t you ask me to come? I could have done something--Do you think I like sitting here being useless? They started harassing my family because of me--and you were going to get yourself--”

It’s amazing he hasn’t knocked himself out with those arm movements. But he...does have a point. The entire situation with the Braginsky’s was hinged on the fact that they were looking to blame Feliciano for the murder, and this entire time, he’s had absolutely no chances to be a part of solving it.

He huffs, turning back around to face me, “I’m sorry--I just...wanted to be useful. And I don’t want anyone else getting hurt because of me. Especially not you.”

Alfred’s holding back the most shit eating grin I’ve ever seen.

“I-Of course. I should have told you,” I say.

Feliciano whips his head to look at Alfred, “A-And you too. I didn’t want you getting hurt either.”

Alfred hmm’s and nods, smiling softly, “I tried to get him to stop here.”

“Wh--You did not!” I shout, “You stood there and watched me stare up at his window without saying a word!”

“I thought if I said anything you’d be embarrassed like you are right now!”

“I’m not embarrassed!”

Feliciano murmurs out of the corner of his mouth, “Your face is bright red.”

“It’s warm outside!” I retort, “A-And even then, what does it matter? We’re here now. And I’m fine.”

“That’s another thing!” Feliciano says, crossing his arms, “You completely froze up on me the other night when you walked me home! What was that supposed to mean?”

“Oh ho, you did what, Lud?” Alfred asks, looking gleeful.

“Did you know right then that you were about to go off without me?”

“Is anyone going to tell me what he did--”

“No!” I shout back defensively. This conversation is far too rapid fire for my narration to be up to par. Someone needs to tell them to stop flustering the narrator. “We only went today because of what happened to Natalya last night. It was spur of the moment!”

Feliciano leans in close, looking up at me, “Then why,” he says, narrowing his eyes, “Did you freeze up yesterday?”

Alfred’s completely enjoying this round of schadenfreude, and I have a faint idea that Feliciano might just be doing this to get back at me for my actions. I gulp. “Personal reasons.”

Alfred snorts behind his hand, and when I turn to glare at him, he waves me away.

Feliciano starts laughing too. “Personal reasons?”

“Y-Yes,” I say, “That’s what I said.”

“Okay, Lud,” he shrugs. I wonder when he started this ‘Lud’ thing. “You’re still not in the clear with me. Just--promise you two will tell me what’s going on from now on?”

Alfred places a hand to his heart, “If it means more of this, you have my word.”

Bastard.

“We will,” I say, “Anyway--the reason we came here--”

“Oh, yeah!” Feliciano says, sitting down across from Alfred at the booth, “What happened with Natalya?”

“Braginsky’s beat the shit out of her last night, and she came to the diner for help,” Alfred says, “So we decided it was finally time to have a talk with Ivan.”

“And what did he say?”

“He was pretty put-off when we mentioned there was no way in hell it was you,” Alfred shrugs, “But I think he’s going to forget about trying. And anyway--he’s got us looking at someone else that might have done it.”

“Natalya,” I add, and Feliciano’s eyes widen, “He’s hinting towards her having something to do with it.”

“Why would she go to you if she already knew who the murderer was?” Feliciano asks.

I had been wondering that myself since we left, and after what Alfred and I had discussed, there seemed like one probable conclusion. “To keep your family safe, I believe. If she knew she was behind it, but that Ivan was going to use that fact against her to take down your family, the only thing left to do was to make sure the blame focused back on her so that Ivan had no excuse.”

Feliciano is silent for a moment. “Is that why he beat her?”

I can tell this isn’t what he wants. Alfred looks sympathetic as well. “It wasn’t the first time he’s done that to her. And--we also don’t think he’s telling us the full story.”

Feliciano’s hands ball into fists. “The next time you go to see him--bring me along.”

“Feliciano--”

“No, Ludwig,” he says, “I’m serious. I’m not going to sit back and let people do things for me any longer. Take me with you next time or I’ll go by myself. Promise me.”

“I promise,” I say. There’s nothing I can do to stop him.

Alfred sighs, “We still have to get back and tell the others what’s happened.”

He’s right. We’ve been gone for several hours now. Any longer and Gilbert was bound to have a heart attack. There was also the chance of Mr. and Mrs. Jones realizing we’re out for more than just a simple run to a store. Alfred stands up. “He’s right,” I say, “We should get going.”

Feliciano nods, staring down at the table. I glance at Alfred. He seems to get the idea. “I’ll start heading out,” he says, “See you around, Feliciano. Tell Lovino and your grandfather we said hello.”

“I will,” Feliciano says, waving, “See you!”

Alfred closes the door behind him, and I know he’s just slipped around the corner to wait. Feliciano looks up at me, “You should get going. Alfred seems like a fast walker.”

I can’t tell if this is a hint for me to leave or not, “Are you alright here alone?”

“It’s fine,” Feliciano says, “I have a cat, actually. Gino. Nonno lets him stay so long as he doesn’t bother the guests, so I’m not alone.”

I’m not about to get into the debate of lonely verses alone, but I can’t help thinking a cat isn’t necessarily the best conversationalist, nor something that could really keep him from worrying if he’s going to be harassed again. He shoots me a look.

“I can take care of myself, you know,” he says, but there’s a smile on his face.

“Right, no--” I stammer again, “I know you can. I was just--”

“Why are you still here?” he asks, and then waves his hands, “I-I don’t mean to sound rude! It’s really just a question.”

I’m not sure I know myself. I don’t respond. He sighs. “Erm. About yesterday--”

“I’m sorry about that,” I blurt, “I really don’t know what came over me.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Feliciano says, rubbing the back of his neck, “I was just worried I did something wrong. Hugging you, I mean.”

He’s staring back at the table again, flushed. It’s odd. I hadn’t really thought about the possibility of Feliciano being just as flustered about this situation as I was. I fake a cough, “No, that--I appreciated that.”

“Appreciated?” Feliciano says, cocking an eyebrow, “You word things so funny.”

“What other word for it is there?” I ask, feeling the heat raise to my ears, “I _appreciated_ it.”

He laughs, and I can feel him relax, “You liked it, maybe?”

“That sounds stranger,” I retort.

He looks thoughtful for a moment, and then nods, “Yeah, you’re probably right. Either way--”

“Either way?”

“Would you mind if I did it again?”

He’s playing with his hands, avoiding turning this way. It’s funny the way you assume no one else but you could ever feel confused or flustered about this sort of thing. Somehow--I suppose I thought Feliciano was completely immune.

            “No,” I say, and he’s still sitting in that booth, but had I been able to, I would have returned the favor.

            Feliciano smiles up at me, and rubs at his eyes. “I thought maybe I had scared you off. I’m glad.”

            My words are sticking to my throat again. I know what I want to say, but I’m not sure if I’m capable of saying it. Or rather--moving. Somehow, I muster out, “Feliciano?”

            He peers an eye open, “Hm?”

            “I--” this is harder than I had assumed, “I’m sorry. About earlier. Not telling you.”

            “Oh,” he says, bemused, “Right. No, you’re fine. I understand.”

            “And,” my throat feels dry, “I was wondering--”

            “About?”

            He’s standing now, leaning over the table towards me. My face feels hot. I’m not entirely sure if my head is aware of where I’m going with this. “I was wondering if I could--”

            Feliciano’s laughter suddenly bubbles from his mouth, “If you’re going to kiss me, just do it.”

            “I--What?” _How in the goddamn--How did he--_

            “You’ve been staring at my face this entire time, Lud,” Feliciano says sheepishly, “I mean, that is what you were thinking about, right?”

            “Well yes--I mean, maybe,” I still can’t believe he caught on, “I--Is that a yes?”

            He moves from behind the booth, and comes just close enough to where he has to tilt his head to see me. “The more we talk about this the more embarrassing it’s going to get.”

            “Fair point.”

            He stretches on his toes, and pouts a little, “You’ll have to lean down.”

            I nod, and after what seems like an hour of inching closer.

            I kiss him.

           

            


	8. Chapter 8

            

“Boy,” Alfred says, leaning over the diner counter, “There sure are a lot of couples in the diner today.”

He’s been provoking far more needless conversation during our morning shift at the diner than usual. As if yesterday wasn’t long enough.“Mh hm.”

            “Milkshake sales are through the roof.”

            I nod. He’s interrupting my cookie stacking. Apparently this isn’t enough attention for him. “You wanna split one?”

            “I’ll pass,” I say shortly, dropping the same damn cookie for the tenth time, “Shouldn’t you be waiting tables?”

            He sighs, slumping over, “How can I work knowing my best friend is going to forget all about me with his new _relationship_?”

            This again.

            I can see him grinning behind his arm as he turns to look at me. Alfred had apparently not in the _slightest_ attempted to get a head start on walking home yesterday evening, and saw the entire thing. By that, I mean he had apparently also been making frequent eye contact with Feliciano behind my back, who had, for some reason, found the situation hilarious. (Remember when he laughed? Bastard.) And so, it was apparently necessary to harass me about it periodically, as if Alfred hadn’t interfered enough.

            “I’m not going to forget about you,” I say, “And it’s not a _relationship_.”

            “Not _yet,_ ” Alfred says, reaching over my hands to swipe a cookie from the tray.

            I resist the urge to drop the lid on his hands, “The point still stands that it isn’t.”

            He’s shoved the entire thing in his mouth. Typical. Through crumbs, he muffles, “But you want it to be.”

            “But it _isn’t,”_ I retort, “And for God’s sake, don’t chew over the tray--”

            “I’m _not_ ,” he argues back cheekily, “Don’t be such a Fuddy-Duddy.”

            Mr. Jones peers out from behind the kitchen door, eyeballing Alfred and myself, “Are you two bickering again?”

            Alfred stands to tighten his apron, and snatches the menus from the counter quickly. I do my best to hold back a smirk. “Just keeping Lud on his toes, Pops,” Alfred says, glancing at me, “He looked like he was falling asleep.”

            How _dare_ he. Before I can respond to this outrageous lie, Mr. Jones says, “Alfred, I don’t think Ludwig has the capacity to do anything that doesn’t correlate with that schedule of his. You could learn a thing or two from him--”

            “Would you look at that--” Alfred says, “Two diners just walked it. Gotta get going!”

            Alfred trots off to greet the customers, and Mr. Jones sighs, watching as he leaves. “He’s a good kid, you know,” he says, adjusting his glasses, “But I’ll be damned if he isn’t exhausting.”

            Mr. Jones and Alfred have always had an interesting relationship from the moment I met the both of them. Alfred takes after his father in appearances, and I’ve reasoned that his habit of taking up a soap box about social issues (or rather life in general) must have come from Mr. Jones as well, but they have disagreements about what’s worth getting “up in arms about”, as Mr. Jones calls it, from time to time.

            Case in point being my residence here above the diner. I don’t take personal offense to Mr. Jones’ reluctance on allowing Gilbert and I to live here, considering I know he was hesitant only because of what our presence may do to the diner’s wellbeing. Knowing that the diner was what kept the Jones’ family afloat, it was reasonable for him to waver on his normally accepting outlook in a time where anti-German sentiment was prevalent.

            That being said, I’m grateful for his choice. Honestly, the only one to argue with Mr. Jones about it was Alfred himself. They’re still at a stalemate about keeping sauerkraut on the menu, but Mr. Jones seems to have realized it was a lost battle.

            Alfred may be exhausting, but--it’s usually for a good cause.

            The face he’s making at me from across the diner right now is not.

            “I can see you, Alfred!” Mr. Jones shouts from the kitchen, and I can hear him laugh to himself as Alfred stiffens.

            This entire family is exhausting.

            As if on cue, Amelia comes trampling over to the counter from upstairs, grinning wildly. This is never a good sign. “About time you got up,” Alfred says, coming back to slip orders into the kitchen as Amelia pulls herself up onto a barstool.

            “I’ve _been_ up,” Amelia says, shooting Alfred a glare, “D’you like my bow, Lud?”

            “It’s red like always,” I reply, the same as always when it comes to this question, “What’s the occasion?”

            Looking rather self-assured, Amelia says, “I had to make sure Nat wasn’t alone! She’s got my other one on.”

            Alfred suddenly seems interested in the conversation. “Nat’s up?”

            When did we start calling her that. “Is she doing alright?”

            Amelia waves a hand, “She’s _fine._ I even got her to put on one of my dresses. Ma’s washing hers.”

            “Nat?” Alfred snorts, “In one of your dresses? What’d you do, knock her out to put it on?”

            Alfred does have a point. Amelia’s taste in dress patterns doesn’t suit the sort of person Natalya seems to be. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve seen Amelia in something that wasn’t bright or flowery before.

            She shrugs, “I just gave her one of my old button-down blue ones. Seemed to fit her fine. She let me pin her hair back and everything. And with the make-up and bandages from Ma you can’t see her cuts so much anymore.”

            Mr. Jones leans up against the kitchen window. “You tell Miss. Arlovskaya she’s welcome to stay as long as she needs to, ‘Melia. She doesn’t need to worry about anything. We’ll take care of her.”    

I can almost hear him say, “Right, Ludwig?” in my head.

            This is absolutely why Mr. Jones put me in charge of balancing the books. This is exactly why.

            Either way, I nod, “If anything, Gilbert and I will do what we can to take care of her. She’s welcome to stay in our apartment.”

            Amelia sticks out her tongue, “No offense Lud, you and Gilbert are clean and all, but no one wants to stay with a bunch of boys. I already set up a little bed for Nat in my room.”

            “In that pigsty?” Alfred says, returning the favor, “It’s a wonder you even have room. How close is she to the ceiling?”

            “My room is _clean_!” Amelia huffs, “Tell him, Lud, isn’t it clean?”

            “I don’t really want to be involved--”

            “Don’t be such a chicken,” Alfred says, nudging me, “Come on, who’s got the cleaner room?”

            Amelia grabs my other arm, “It’s me, isn’t it?”

            Just as I am about to be used in a game of Jones-Siblings-Tug-Of-War, Alfred’s beamed upside the head with something that clatters to the floor. “What the--”

            Natalya's standing at one of the tables beside a couple that looks rather amused with the situation. She mumbles a thank you. I look down at the spoon on the floor. Wonders never cease.

            “What was that for?” Alfred asks, rubbing at his forehead.

            “These people wanted to order,” Natalya says, “I was getting your attention.”

            Alfred looks like he wants to retort, honestly, but the minute he realizes whom he’s talking to, his mouth seals shut. I can’t believe I’m seeing Alfred F. Jones embarrassed. I wasn’t entirely sure he had the capability of being embarrassed. I wonder if Natalya’s had much cake in her years with Ivan…

            “We might just have to keep her around forever,” Mr. Jones says with a chuckle.

            I would agree with him, but by the looks of it, Natalya would rather I didn’t. There’s already too much focus in her direction, albeit positive, though I’m sure she’s come to know attention of any form as something negative. At least, the attention she can’t control. Perhaps we have something in common.

            Apparently my attempt at smiling as to reassure Natalya was seen as some sort of attack towards Alfred, as he shoots me a look before he says, “Amelia, why don’t you ask Lud about his date tomorrow?” and scurries off.

            I was hoping he had forgot about that.

            Mr. Jones cocks an eyebrow at me from behind the window, but disappears back to the kitchen before I can respond. Amelia, however, wastes no time. “You have a date?”

            She’s leaning over the counter now, fists pressed on the table, “Why didn’t you tell me? Who is she?”

            Natalya looks curiously intent on hearing this as well, sliding next to Amelia and sitting rather stiffly on the barstool. At this point, I have a few choices. Attempt to lie my way out of this by denying everything, despite my penchant for overthinking what lie I could possibly tell them that would raise as few questions as possible and thereby rendering myself nervous and particularly unbelievable. Or, I could tell them the truth, but swap out a few names and pronouns here and there, though the idea of doing that makes me feel a bit disgusted and guilty, honestly. There was also the option of denying everything and avoiding questions entirely. Always worth a shot.

            “There isn’t a date,” I mumble, focusing again on arranging the desserts, “Do you believe every word your brother says?”

            Amelia looks both relieved and frustrated at the same time. “Well no,” she says, fiddling with a loose curl, “If it’s not a date, does that mean you’re doing something else?”

            “There were some things I needed to discuss with Natalya tonight, actually.”         

            Which is true. Alfred and I still had to discuss our visit to the Braginsky’s with Natalya, as well as...our suspicions. Perhaps suspicions isn’t the right word. Regardless.

            “About my brother?” Natalya asks, and I can nearly see her metaphorical hackles raise.

            I nod. Amelia still seems skeptical. “You’re not dating Natalya, are you?”

            I have never seen a more completely disgusted expression on Natalya’s face. I would be offended if I didn’t feel nearly the same way about that situation. For once, Amelia seems to pick up on this, and laughs sheepishly, “Guess not.”

            Alfred’s back to slide an order into the kitchen. “So? Did you tell her?”

            I give him the best poker face I can manage, “Tell her what?”

            He glowers at me. Amelia’s glancing back and forth between us.

            I know he’s caught between the fact that while neither Amelia nor Natalya would mind what he’s about to say, it’s not particularly his choice to tell them. Though, for someone like Alfred, who is, by all means, absolutely horrendous at keeping secrets from the people he trusts, I can see it slowly killing him. There is a terrible sadistic streak appreciating that at the moment.

            Fortunately for him, the masochistic tendencies tend to win.

            I sigh. How exactly am I supposed to go about this? “It’s complicated.”

            Natalya’s glare could pierce holes through steel, “This...doesn’t have to do with my brother, does it?”

            Alfred’s snorting back laughter. “No! No,” I reply, “God, no. That’s not--

            Amelia slams a fist on the table, “Then spit it out!”

            “Oh man,” Alfred says, wiping at his eyes, “Nah, this is definitely about Ivan. Who wouldn’t want to kiss that guy--”

            “You kissed someone?!”

            _Oh goddammit._

            “Keep your voices down!” I whisper roughly, “And I never said that--”

            “Alfred implied it--”

            “I did imply it--”

            “If everyone would shut up--”

            Natalya clamps a hand over both Alfred and Amelia’s mouths. “Go on,” she says with a nod. We may definitely need her around for a while.

            I glance back into the kitchen to make sure Mr.Jones isn’t near the window, “We stopped by the Vargas’ last night,” I say, “And Feliciano was there--”

            Amelia’s eyes widen, and she glances over at Alfred. She says something, but whatever it is is muffled completely by Natalya’s hand. Alfred shushes her. Natalya looks particularly regretful about covering their mouths with her hand.

            “We--er, that is, Alfred and I,” I clear my throat, “Wanted to tell him the information we had received from Ivan. Which is what we need to talk about later, Natalya--”

            “Get on with it,” she says.

            That was cold. “Anyway,” it feels hot in here suddenly, “Alfred left the room, and I went to tell Feliciano goodbye--”

“And you met his older sister?” Amelia says, pulling Natalya’s hand from  her mouth, only for it to be quickly clamped back on.

“No,” I say, _“No_ , Feliciano does not have an older sister. Er, as I was saying. I went to tell Feliciano goodbye and discuss a few things with him when I--well, that is to say _we--_ er, kissed, as it were.”

Amelia’s eyebrows look as though they might snap under pressure. I can’t say I’m not surprised. Oddly enough, Natalya seems...pleased? She takes her hands back and folds them in her lap, looking on at me expectantly.

The first one to speak up is Amelia. “So...your date is with Feliciano?”

I nod. She glances at Alfred, who shrugs, and grins at her. Amelia turns to Natalya as well, who still has the smallest smile on her face. This perplexes Amelia as much as it does me, but she (as she always does) has the courage to ask her about it. “Are you _smiling_?”

Her eyes narrow, and the shadow of a smile quickly disappears, “No.”

“ _You were so_ ,” Amelia says, “Did you know about this?”

“ _No_ ,” she snaps back, “Why do you ask so many questions?”

Alfred leans closer to Amelia, “I bet it was cute.”

That was no where near the proper thing to say at the moment, as I can see the red spreading from Natalya’s cheeks to her ears, and her shoulders stiffen. Instinctively, she reaches for her hip, but when she realizes there isn’t a pocket to be found, her hands clutch at the fabric of her dress. I contemplate passing her a spoon.

“Er,” I say, “Natalya, don’t let them bother you. They really don’t understand--”

“I don’t need you to mediate,” she retorts, “It’s fine. I was--thinking. About something. It was very stupid. That is all.”

“Was it me?” Alfred says, which is, in all likelihood, his attempt at being smooth.

It’s a bit like watching your dog attempt to roll over and get stuck halfway through.

Natalya doesn’t even grant him an answer, but gives him a look, before turning back to me. “I’ve burdened the three of you with this,” she says quietly, twisting the dress in her hands, “But--to hear that because of this, someone has found something good...I think...it makes me happy.”

I would describe the way I am feeling towards that statement considering as your narrator it is in fact my job, but for God’s sake _I am one man._ A man that is having a hard time stopping himself from doing something drastic and emotional _._ Either way, despite what Alfred or Natalya may say later on this evening, I’ve decided that we are in fact protecting Natalya at all costs, no matter how set she is on the opposite.

Considering the way Alfred is looking at her, I can’t say he’ll be disagreeing with me.

He and Amelia nearly lunge at her, and Amelia’s holding Natalya's hands in hers as Alfred drapes an arm over the both of them. “That’s so sweet though,” Amelia coos, “We’re happy too. You’re welcome to stay with us as long as you like, you know?”

“Yeah, Nat,” Alfred adds, “And you’re nowhere near a bother. We’re practically experts in the silent types now. Look at Lud. He’s halfway to well adjusted.”

I resent that.

“Rude comments aside,” I say, making a point to nod at Alfred, “They’re right. We’ll talk about this more later this evening, but I think I speak for all of us when I say we’d like it if you--thought of us. As your next permanent home. Especially considering it is by no means safe for you to return to your old one.”

She looks a bit put-off by this, but I can tell she knows I’m right, and nods solemnly. Amelia nuzzles closer to her, and holds her hands just a bit tighter. I think, at this moment, despite my own growing concern that this is only the tip of the knife into our metaphorical backs with this case, watching these three at the counter--

It makes me think of a family.

\----------------------------

            We’re off our shifts around five that evening, as Mrs. Jones and Amelia take our places, giving Alfred and I the opportune moment to speak with Natalya. It’s odd for a moment, seeing Natalya sitting quietly on the couch, considering when she first entered this room...not only was her presence aggressive, but it managed to end in a chunk missing from my desk. I idly run a finger over it. It’s surprising how much has changed in these past weeks.

            “So, let’s get started,” Alfred says, and I hear the familiar clunk behind me of Alfred putting his damned feet on my coffee table. Somethings never change.

            “Down,” I say, turning to stare pointedly at Alfred until he begrudgingly complies, “This is a serious conversation, Alfred, at least act like it--”

            “Neither of you have said anything and we’ve been up here for the past 10 minutes,” Alfred replies, “Pardon me for providing comic relief--”

            “Ivan told you.”

            Alfred and I full stop. From the couch, Natalya sighs, and says again, “Ivan told you. About what I’ve done. I can see it in your faces.”

Alfred tilts his head, “Ivan told us...things, yeah. That’s not to say we believe him, right Lud?”

Don’t bring me into this.

I know better than to agree, because Natalya is far more used to the way her brother works than we are. She had to have known without a doubt that Ivan would have been quick to turn what appeared to be her own cohorts against her. After all, the punishment she received the other night was a very clear message. She was not one of them anymore. He had no reason to protect her.

But he knows how to work people. If he told us straightforward what Natalya had done, we would brush it off as a lie. Planting small seeds of doubt in our heads and allowing us to reach our own conclusion? It’s not what he’s said after that. It’s what we’ve figured out.

The silence is making Alfred uneasy. “Lud?”

“I think we should hear Natalya's side,” I say quietly, “If that’s fine with her.”

Natalya nods, “He told you I had something to do with the murder. I know that much. He’s not going to lie for me anymore.”

“But you,” Alfred says, “You didn’t really--”

“You don’t understand,” Natalya says, “There was no choice for me. In my family, all they strive for is their own happiness. It does not matter who is hurt along the way. To them, your optimism is a weakness.”

“Just--” Alfred says, and swallows, “Tell me you didn’t--Tell me it was Ivan and we’ll go down there right now and give him what’s coming to him. We’ll fix this. He’ll go to prison. You’ll be safe here with us--”

            “Prison?” Natalya says bitterly, “You really believe Ivan Braginsky will end up in prison? Do you have any idea the things my family has done to make their way in this country? This? What has happened? It’s nothing to him. And nothing anyone can convict him for.”

            “Tell me,” Alfred says, “That you weren’t the one that killed that man. Please.”

            Natalya stares back, her lips between her teeth, before she bows her head and inhales sharply. “Alfred,” I start, standing up, “Give her a moment--”

            “He was my brother’s favorite.”

            Natalya’s voice cracks, and she swallows, and tries again, “Laurinait--Toris--stupid, he was a fool. Never realized he was nothing but a pet to my brother. Never got angry with him. Never held anything against him--”

            Alfred moves to comfort her, but she pushes him away. “He was always kind to me, though he knew how much I hated him. Wrote me letters, asked me to go out for walks with him, brought me tea. I denied him. But, my brother--he was jealous of this. Did not like to see his little dog courting me.”

            She breathes, harshly, “They fought one day. Brother said it was because he was beginning to doubt his loyalty to the family. But I knew--I knew it was because he was afraid. He was not the most important to that man anymore. It was me. And I was going to be punished for allowing it to continue.”

            Again, Alfred’s hand reaches for hers, and she swats it away weakly, “Toris--he came to my bedroom late one night. I threw him out, told him to get out of my sight, but he told me my brother had sent him. He took out a knife--held it out to me, his arm was trembling but he had that idiotic smile of his plastered on his face. And he told me--he told me to kill him.”

            “I thought he was trying to apologize for embarrassing me in front of my brother. Playing the martyr. I threw the knife down, told him to fuck off--Natalya Arlovskaya did not take charity. And he said,” she says, and I can see her knuckles go white as she clutches her hands, “We didn’t have a choice. If I didn’t do this--Ivan would kill me as well.”

            “You told him you weren’t going to do it, didn’t you?” Alfred says, “Maybe he carried it out himself--maybe Ivan’s threats were fake--”

            “Alfred--”

            “All humans ever do is hurt others while helping themselves--what was I supposed to do?“ Natalya snaps, “Telling me it was the only way--all he was doing was freeing himself from having to see my pain! He didn’t have to live it anymore! _Do not tell me that I could have done anything differently when I never had a choice to begin with.”_

Alfred shrinks back. I can see Natalya's eyes gloss over with tears. “He acted as if it was nothing,” she spits, “Asked me--if I could hold his hand while I did it, let him see _my face_ one last time, while _I_ had to _sit there_ and let him die in front of me by my hand. Do not tell me I had a choice. These men--these people-- _never thought of me at all._ ”

            The rope holding Natalya's emotions back finally snaps, and she slums into her hands, breathing heavily as she swallows her sobs. Alfred is still pressed against the armchair, looking at Natalya hesitantly, as if he’s seeing her for the first time.

            “It’s different now.”

            She peers up over her hands at me, eyes already turning an unfamiliar pink.

            “Lud’s right,” Alfred murmurs, “You have choices now. And people that care about you. We’re not going to let anything happen you to--”

            “That is a promise you cannot keep,” Natalya says, “There are so many things I have done--even involving your family. They will not stop until my brother is satisfied.”

            “Then we’ll give him what he wants,” I say, “You kept the Vargas’ safe, and we can keep this family, including you, safe all the same. We owe you that much.”

            She looks at me, scanning my face for a moment, and says, “I would not let them die for me. There was nothing heroic about what I did. I was protecting myself. Do not get the wrong idea.”

            “You could have let them die,” I say, “If you were really only protecting yourself, you wouldn’t have gotten involved in the first place. Protecting your pride wasn’t the only thing going on here, and you know it, Natalya.”

            She’s silent for a moment, wiping at her eyes discreetly, brow furrowed, but slightly softer looking than before. Alfred’s hand is resting on hers now. Whether she believes what I’ve said or not, what matters is that I’ve said it. Humans aren’t unlike dogs when they learn good behaviors through repetition. Why would we be? What person doesn’t like to hear when they’ve done something right? Especially someone who has most likely scarcely heard a good word for most of her life.

            So I’ll say it again. Remind her as many times as she needs it. She protected them.

            She was good.

            Surprisingly, Natalya accepts Alfred’s handkerchief, clutching it in her palm. That wary look she’s giving him never falters, but I can see her shoulders relax, and I’m certain Alfred can too. “You alright?” Alfred asks.

            She just confessed to murder and you’re asking if she’s alright. _Alfred._

            Natalya shares my sentiment of that being an idiotic question, and her eyes narrow. “You waste air with those questions.”

            Alfred’s cheeks puff, “Pardon me for askin’ if you’re not about to go toss yourself from a building! Trying to lighten the mood and I get you both glaring at me like I’m some sort of leper--”

            “I am holding your hand, am I not?” Natalya murmurs back, “Do not look so annoyed.”

            A bicycle can fare well with only two wheels, but in theory, a tricycle is slightly more stable. I suppose I should be flattered. Ludwig “Stable Wheel” Beilschmidt. Has a ring to it.

            I clear my throat. “I hate to interupt, but there’s still the matter of what Natalya wishes to do about the--murder...situation.”

            “Well, we’re not turning her in, right?” Alfred says, “I mean--what’s that word--coercion? And then the guy practically told her to do it! I’m all for justice, Lud, you know me, but--”

            “You really don’t need to defend your decision,” I say, “I’m sure you and I are on the same page. However, it _is_ Natalya's choice.”

            She looks unsettled by this. “I killed a man. His blood will always be on my hands, no matter the circumstances. His family would want me punished--”

            “Hasn’t this all been enough of one, though?” Alfred asks, “There’s more you can do to--make some sort of penance for this, isn’t there? What’s wasting away in jail gonna do? Especially when Ivan’s still out there.”

            “That has nothing to do with my crimes--”

            “Wait,” I say, “Alfred’s on to something. You have information about the family, don’t you? Whereabouts? Names of victims? Things like that?”

            She squints at me, “Are you suggesting I throw them to the dogs?”

            “You could, at the very least, get justice for the other victims. And by coming forward about Laurinatis’ death with the promise of information, his family will get closure, while you lead the police in disbanding your brother’s regime,” I explain, “You could free those people. You could free your brother from the life he has created.”

            “By committing _treason_ ,” Natalya says, but her lips thin, and she adds, “I will--think about it. At least for tonight.”

            Stiffly, she offers Alfred his handkerchief back. “Your mother and sister are waiting for me downstairs. If it’s alright with the both of you, I’d like to join them.”

            I nod. Alfred tucks the handkerchief back in his shirt pocket, and holds out a hand to help her up. She declines, shoving past him towards the door with what looks like a good portion of her energy. As she turns to leave, Alfred says, “You’ll really think about it, won’t you?”

            “I haven’t stopped,” she replies, and before she shuts the door behind her, softly says, “Thank you.”

            It’s silent in the room for a moment as Alfred stares quietly at the door.

            “Lud?”

            “Hm?”

            “Are we making the right decision?”

            Legally, no. But I’m assuming that’s not the answer he’s going for. “Natalya said humans are constantly hurting each other for their own gain, didn’t she?” I say, “Maybe what we’re doing is a bit like that. Granted, it’s...selfish, in a way, but--instead of hurting others, maybe this decision, somewhere down the road, be it a month, a year, decades from now--will lead to something positive.”

            He sighs, long and slow, and says, “She’s a good person.”

            “Yes, she is.”

            “And we’re going to keep her safe.”

            _What is this, some sort of pep talk_. “To the best of our abilities, yes, of course.”

            “And no amount of you constantly getting lost in Feliciano Vargas’ eyes will change that--”

            “Ye-- _wait a second now_.”

            He turns to me, laughing, and rubs at his eyes, “Sorry, I couldn’t resist. You were kinda getting into it.”

            “I-I was answering your questions!” I snap, “Can’t you be serious for more than a minute?”

            “Nah,” Alfred waves a hand, “Hey, let’s go do somethin’ together. They’re downstairs having secret girl club. It’s only fair. We haven’t had a break since this whole thing started.”

            He’s right about that. Nearly the only break we’ve had has been sleeping, and even then I can’t say it was any help. “Like what?”

            Alfred shrugs, “Something. It’s seven o’ clock. Night’s still young.”

            “I’d rather not go out, if that’s alright with you, given the circumstances.”

            “Yeah, no kidding,” Alfred grumbles, “Give me a piece of paper. I’ll draw Ivan, and we can throw darts at ‘em.”

            I scoff. He raises his eyebrows. “No,” I say, “No, absolutely not. The walls--Stop wiggling your eyebrows at me--”

            “You know you want to,” he chimes, “Come on, we’ll tape a pillow to the wall or something.”

            “The feathers, Alfred--”

            “We have this thing called a _vacuum cleaner_ now--”

            I open my mouth, but I can’t seem to find a counter argument to that. Alfred grins back at me.

            “You’ll clean it up? All of it?” I ask.

            Alfred snorts, “Yeah, until you start doing it for me.”

            “...”

            “C’moooon--”

            I toss a pad of paper and a pencil at his lap. “Make sure his nose is the bullseye,” and pause, “And don’t tell Natalya I said that.”

            Alfred salutes sloppily, “Yes, Captain.”

The evening ended with a knife in my wall courtesy of one Natalya Arlovskaya after walking in to see what the noise was about.

It would have been easier if she hadn’t looked so damn pleased with herself.

           

            


	9. Chapter 9

            “You know, we really gotta stop meeting up like this.”

            Once again, Gilbert’s head hangs over mine, leaning over the couch. I can smell faint toothpaste on his breath. A solid improvement from the last time. “Wie spät ist es?” I mumble, eyes flickering.

            “Acht, Brüderchen,” Gilbert says, ruffling my hair before wandering towards the bathroom, “Look at you, keeping up with your heritage. Passing out drunk on couches, only speaking German the morning after--you’d do your uncle from Bavaria proud--”

            “Not drunk,” I retort, “Long day. We have an uncle in Bavaria?”

            Gilbert laughs, “Well, he’s technically a half brother, but he’s twice your age. Uncle’s easier. Less confusion. The Beilschmidt family’s partly nomadic, I think. Hell, look where we are.”

            I mumble a noise of agreement. Gilbert’s head peers around the door frame, “You notice Alfred on your lap yet.”

            I glance down. Sure enough, Alfred’s head leans against my leg, drooling slightly. Absolutely disgusting. “I had not, actually. Danke.”

            “Bitte. Can I ask another question?”

            “Hm?”

            “Why the fuck is there a knife in the wall.”

            I attempt a mock look of disbelief as I jab a finger towards Alfred’s slumbering figure. Gilbert tch-es, “Are you going to let every cute boy run my fucking house?” but there’s a grin on his face. My eyes flicker closed again.

            “He did a nice caricature of Braginski.”

            “Shit, I thought that was a photo,” Gilbert snorts, “Got the nose just right. You two don’t have to work this morning?”

            “Evening shift,” I answer, “Natalya insisted on helping this morning.”

            “Lucky you,” Gilbert says, straightening his collar and looking at me for approval, “You better hope Braginski doesn’t try beating my ass at work today. I don’t want him to have to limp home.”

            I hadn’t thought about that. “He doesn’t know we’re related, does he?”

            “Uh, well,” Gilbert says, “He knows _I’m_ a Beilschmidt. He knows _you’re_ a Beilschmidt. Feel like he might make a correlation there. Don’t worry about it, kid. Your big brother can handle it.”

            Somehow I doubt that, though I suppose Gilbert has just as much strength as I do-- “You’re sure?”

            He flexes in the mirror for good measure, “Does _this_ answer your question?”

            I’m ashamed to have actually laughed at that.

            “I’ll be fine,” he says, yanking on his workboots, “What about you? You going somewhere today?”

            “Mh,” I had nearly forgotten (that’s a lie), “Feliciano Vargas invited me to visit him this afternoon.”

            Gilbert’s eyebrows could touch the ceiling of this flat. “Vargas? Seriously? He wants to hang out with you and not me?”

            Why does he sound that surprised. “Do you want me to put in a good word?”

            “Would you?”

            “Absolutely not,” I shoot back, “You’re going to be late, you know.”

            Gilbert takes a glance at his watch and swears, “Make sure you clean his spit off the couch,” he fumbles a gesture to Alfred, double checking his laces, “Try not to bore Vargas to death. And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do--”

            “I will be doing _everything_ you wouldn’t do.”

            He stops on his way out the door, his expression of brotherly concern that always looks so oddly adult on his face. “Hey. I’m serious, Ludwig. Stay safe, alright?”

            I avoid his eyes, but nod solemnly, “Yeah. You too.”

            He smiles, but his lips are thin. With a sigh, he lets the door close behind him, murmuring a quick, “--liebe dich.”

 Despite the fact Gilbert is generally--overzealous about a good portion of things--not to mention embarrassing--I do have to admire him. I wonder if our parents would do the same.

            He’s definitely right about the fact I need to stop falling asleep on couches, for one. I’m not sure how I managed to fall asleep sitting up last night, nor why Alfred didn’t just travel back to his room. His glasses are on the coffee table this time, instead of skewed from his face, and he looks significantly  more comfortable and compact curled up on the couch. Honestly I should just wake him instead of describing the situation, but touching people. _Touching people._

“Oy,” I mumble, “Time to get up.”

            He doesn’t budge, but his eyes clench, and his mouth closes. An improvement. “John Wayne is in the diner and wants to see you. Rise and shine.”

            “Bullshit,” Alfred groans, muffled against the couch, “You don’t joke about John Wayne, man.”

            “My apologies,” I say, “But my thigh was starting to get more than a little damp.”

            Alfred’s eyes open quickly, “Ah, shit--sorry Lud.”

            He gets up slowly, rubbing his face, “You feel asleep like an hour into darts. And then I tried wakin’ you up. But I guess I fell asleep--jesus, we’re getting old.”

            “You’re already reverting back to drooling all over yourself, apparently.”

            Alfred snorts, “Listen, in my defense, you’ve got some pillow like cushion going on there. Ease off the cake, would ya?”

            I pat my waist, “Seriously?”

            Alfred’s eyes narrow, “Don’t ask me that as if you’re seriously concerned.”

            Is this shirt too tight again. I cough. “Right--er, anyway--I should get in the shower.”

            “Yeah, me too,” Alfred says with a yawn, “You leavin’ for your date soon?”

            “In a few hours.”

            Feliciano hadn’t given a definite time, but I assumed around eleven would do fine. Though for some reason, I had a feeling that was arriving just a bit too early for someone like him. Honestly, any time was probably “too early” for him, no matter what the definite was.

            Mostly, I’m impressed with myself for not denying the fact it was a date yet again. And, whether Alfred says it or not, I’m nearly sure he agrees.

            He stands to stretch, yawning loudly, “Alright. Damn, I think I might just go back to bed. Hey, good luck if I don’t see you before you leave--try not to sweat so much this time.”

            Do I normally have a sweat problem. “Right. Thanks, Alfred.”

            He waves from behind as he stumbles out of the flat, “No problem.”

            The door closes behind him. I sigh, leaning my head back onto the couch. Maybe it was best if I slept for a bit too. Though I doubt I could. Now I have some sort of sweating problem to worry about on top of everything else. Which, by all means, might just be Alfred bullshitting, but--god, what am I? A teenager?

There’s a bit of commotion coming from the stairs. I tilt towards the sound. Alfred must have gotten stopped on the way back to his room, though I can’t tell if it’s Amelia or his mother on the stairs with him. The noise stops after a quick mumble that sounds vaguely like a yes, and I hear footsteps clambering up towards my door. If I’m quick enough, I can escape to the bathroom--

Amelia peers her head in cautiously, “Anybody home?”

I give a grunt, and raise my hand. Amelia smiles, however, I notice she looks a bit nervous. “Oh--I thought you’d be in the shower--”

“It can wait,” I sit up, brushing loose hair from my forehead, “Did you need something?”

“If you need to get goin’--”

I look towards the chair pointedly, “Sit.”

She blows a stream of air from her lips, “Okay.”

Amelia steps in, still wearing her apron from the dinner. There’s a small package dangling from her hands, bumping against her side. Instead of sitting, she stands, shifting uncomfortably near the chair. “I brought something for you to take to the Vargas’,” she says, lifting her hand, “Those cookies you taught me how to make. I thought it might be nice.”

They’re going to start thinking we plan on fattening them up at this rate. “Thank you. You didn’t need to do that--”

Amelia rubs at her neck “I wanted to. It’s the least I can do for my partner in crime, right? But, um. I just wanted to say--”

She exhales, “I know you didn’t ask for all this when we started. And maybe I was readin’ a lot of Sherlock Holmes at the time, yanno, but. Thank you. For doin’ that with me. Even if it was just finding lost dogs and stuff.”

I blink. “You don’t have to thank me for that. It was--nice.”

“Yeah?” Amelia says, nervous laughter bubbling past her lips, “Nice. I’m...really glad. And, yanno, Lud, I’m--really sorry that it got to be like this. I mean, on the up side, we got to meet Nat and you got to meet--Feliciano, but. I dunno I just--I guess I wanted to ask if…”

“If?”

She rolls her eyes, but I’m sure it’s at herself. “If you’re still my--yanno, _Watson_.”

I study her for a moment, her eyes shifting from the floor to mine. I had thought before about how Alfred had seemingly taken her place in a good part of this investigation (if you could call it that), but leaving her out was first and foremost for her own safety. Then again, had I really cared about that previously when we were hunting down lost dogs in alleyways? She could handle herself, we all knew that. And I was in no place to refuse her considering my hand in helping her with this in the first place.

But, it was easy to imagine the look on Alfred’s face if I had insisted she joined us.

“Of course,” I reply softly.

A part of me wants to assure her that things will go back to normal after we fix this situation, but I’m not so sure I have it in me to continue on with play-detective once I know it can end up like this.

She seems relieved, and sighs. “Okay,” Amelia smiles, shoving the cookies in my direction suddenly, “So--please take this to Feliciano! And tell him--I said hello. You got that?”

I accept, and nod, “Thank you, Amelia.”

She beams, “No need to thank me.”

“That’s not true,” I assure her, “You’ve been understandably busy, taking the time to make these wasn’t necessary.”

She snorts, “Less busy than you two have been. Yanno I set up a fake crime scene with gingerbread the other night you were out like we did that one time? Piped a little chalk line around the victim just like last time. My hand’s getting steadier. Ma got mad though.”

I scoff amicably, “I did warn you that it wasn’t the best kitchen activity.”

Amelia chuckles. “Yeah, but I’m pretty sure it was the strawberry jam that threw her over the top,” she leans in to whisper, “Works _amazing_ for blood splatter.”

I grimace, and she laughs, but her face slowly fades back into a nervous smile. “Anyways, the point is that I haven’t really been as busy as you think, so don’t mind the cookies. And make sure he eats them all, or I’ll be piping an icing outline around him next,” she waves a fist, and if I didn’t know her, I’d nearly take that threat seriously, “And, er, Lud?”

“Yes?”

Amelia tugs at her dress for a moment, but bends down close to my cheek, planting a quick kiss. Telling you I was startled would be an understatement, though with the way she reacted in the diner yesterday--I’ve been an idiot.

She’s quick to leap back from me, and doesn’t hesitate to start moving for the door. I stammer out her name briefly, but she cuts me off with a wave of her hand. “That was just a thank you, you got it?” Her eyes look glossy, but she’s smiling, “Good luck today! I’ll--see you later!”

For the third time this morning, the door closes in front of me. I suppose I have no choice but to shower while mulling over fixing my apparent dull personality. And a debatable sweat problem. And the...inconsideration of...young girl’s feelings...that I may have ignored for several years.

            Maybe _I_ should begin piping icing around myself.

 

           

Unfortunately for me, as much as I do try to drag my feet on the way to meet-ups, it never seems to follow through. Leaving at half past ten and making sure to read each sign and wave hello to anyone I might have recognized on my way to the Vargas’ was the plan, though that only gained me a few minutes more in my travel. _And_ , with a glance at my watch before rounding on their front door, I realize it’s only five until the hour. Try to be late and wind up early. Absolutely brilliant, Ludwig. Good work.

As expected, it seems as though Feliciano might not even be awake at this hour, considering the light that usually shines from the upstairs room is missing. Perhaps I should have called him to specify a proper time. Though, on the upside, this does give me a very valid reason to leave a note and turn around to walk straight back to the diner to have a bit more time to breathe quietly into a paper bag.

            ...I don’t have any way of leaving a note, however. And what if he happened to come downstairs in the next minute or so? What if he assumed I hadn’t intended on showing up at all?

            “Whatcha doin’?”

            I am thoroughly convinced that it is entertaining for the entire human race to startle me and this is all a large inside joke. Feliciano is no different, apparently. He grins, leaning against a worn looking fence beside the restaurant, no bigger than a few feet in space. A tomato plant brushes against his knees. “Your light is off,” I stammer with a gesture. As if that was an explanation.

            His head tilts, “Well, I _am_ outside. Gino needed some fresh air.”

            “Gino?”

            He bends down to pick up something from behind the tomato plants. A curly, white cat with speckles of brown fur lays slumbering in his arms despite being lifted into the air. Apparently movement wasn’t going to interrupt his nap. Feliciano oofs. “I gotta stop feeding him pizza scraps. But yeah! Remember when I mentioned Nonno lets me keep a cat?”

            I nod. “He’s, er. Handsome.”

            He looks at me as if I’ve said something strange, but smiles regardless. “D’you wanna hold him?”

            Cats and I had never gotten along. As Gilbert had said before, I was, for starters, too much of a dog person for their liking, and easily terrified by the threat of fur ruining a perfectly ironed pair of pants.

            ...I wouldn’t have said _terrified._ But. Either way.

            I shake my head. “I don’t want to startle him.”

            Feliciano laughs, “You _are_ kinda making a scary looking face right now. I dunno if I’d like waking up to that either.”

            Gino purrs, rubbing gently against Feliciano’s shoulder. “I should let him inside,” Feliciano says, “The door’s open, by the way! Let yourself in! I’ll be around in a second--”

            He sways back toward the side of the building, humming cheerfully. As he disappears, I try to imagine myself with a cat perched affectionately on my shoulder, singing in the back of my garden.

            Somehow, this comparison isn’t even laughable.

 Maybe Gilbert was right in questioning why in the world Feliciano Vargas would want to invite me over for the afternoon.

            “Lud?” Feliciano calls from inside, “Are you coming?”

            Now he’s going to think I was too busy glaring at his tomato plants to come inside. Amazing.

           

            Walking into the restaurant was only slightly stranger than normal, considering I was very used to only Feliciano being present by the time we managed to visit. But this time, it seemed emptier. Feliciano had mentioned that the others were off shopping for supplies for the rest of the week, so maybe that was the cause of the dusty, bare feeling I had when I walked inside. (Logically, it may also have been caused by my nerves, but I don’t need to narrate that for you.)

            An apron hangs from Feliciano’s waist, and he motions to untie it as his eyes travel from my own to the floor. “I was cleaning a bit before you got here,” he says, arms moving as if he would be gesturing with his hands had they not already been preoccupied, “But, er, I’m not sure it made much of a difference. This place collects dust like my nonno’s antiques. And I--might have fallen asleep half way through dusting.”

            The image of Feliciano leaning against a broom, snoring slightly, crosses my mind. It’s--endearing, to say the least. “It’s fine,” I reply, and add, “I could help you with the rest if you wanted?”

            Feliciano snorts as if I had just suggested we climb Mount Everest, “You’re my guest! I’m not gonna make you clean, _strambo,_ I don’t even make myself clean unless I really have to!”

            “It really isn’t a bother--”

            “No cleaning!”

            “...But that pile over there--”

            He jabs a finger at me, waving his apron, “No. Cleaning.”

            He tosses the apron on a nearby counter and pulls up a chair, motioning for me to sit. “Is that package for me?” Feliciano asks, pointing at my lap.

It, er, may have taken more than a few embarrassing seconds for me to realize I still had Amelia’s container of cookies with me. Feliciano seems to notice, hiding a laugh behind his hands. I can’t help but wonder if his poor choice in wording was intentional, but there’s nothing I can do besides sputter a “Yes,” and, “Amelia sent it with me,” in reply.

“Ooh,” Feliciano says, holding out his hands to accept it, “She didn’t have to do that! It’s not more rolls, is it? I really loved those--”

“Cookies, actually. I, ah, taught her how to bake butter cookies a while ago and she decided to try it herself, so--”

Feliciano is already digging into the box, examining the contents, “You taught her how to bake? I mean...you bake? Like, with cookies and cakes and things? You?”

“And rolls,” I say quietly, “Yes.”

Feliciano’s eyes widen. “Wha-” he stops to swallow the cookie he had already begun nibbling on, wiping loose crumbs from his mouth, “Seriously? Those were yours?”

I nod. His face brightens. “That’s so cute!”

“Ah,” Not exactly the comment I was expecting, “I’m glad you think so…”

He picks up another cookie, looking at it thoughtfully, “What made you take up baking?”

The answer to this is not a short one by any means, considering I’m already thinking of back home in Germany with our grandfather. My hobby, while very useful as far as the diner was concerned, wasn’t really heralded by my grandfather, though he never truly spoke against it. Not so much that he disapproved, but that the memory wasn’t one he wanted to dwell on for long. I think, perhaps, it was because it reminded him so much of my father when I put on that apron. Both of our parents had died when we were very small, and losing his only son had a lasting impact on my grandfather. When I found bits and pieces of my father’s personality...meshing them with my own seemed to make his memory that much stronger.

My mind wanders to thoughts of sharing freshly made bread with Gilbert on the porch before I notice Feliciano’s staring at me nervously. I blink, shaking my head, “Sorry--my, er, father baked, actually.”

“Oh,” he says, “Did you like him much? I never really got to know mine, honestly. Our family’s kind of a jumbled mess.”

“I think so,” I reply, “I didn’t know mine much either.”

It’s quiet for a moment, evident that we both wished the conversation hadn’t strayed to such a depressing subject. Personally, I’m trying to block Gilbert’s own warnings of being utterly boring from reverberating in my head.

Feliciano’s stuffed another cookie in his mouth. “Oh!” he says, muffled by both his chewing and the hand over his mouth, “Did you talk to Natalya?”

I had honestly nearly forgotten about that. “Yes. Last night, actually.”

“What’d she say?”

“What we expected,” I say, “Ivan was behind the entire set up. Pushed Toris into forcing Natalya to kill him. And now we aren’t sure if she’ll agree to give the information to the police considering what the rest of the family might do to her. But. It’s a start. Hopefully the Braginsky’s won’t be interested in paying your family any more surprise visits.”

Feliciano still looks uneasy. “That was a little tactless,” he quips, but backtracks quickly, “W-Well, what I mean is...After all the trouble she went through for us--for Toris, it sounds like…I don’t know. I figure if anyone deserves something sugar coated, it’s her. I’d--I’d be scared, too.”

“...Yes, I suppose so.”

“I’d like to thank her,” Feliciano adds, fingers fiddling with the hem on his shirt, “Is that strange? I mean, I know murder isn’t right, they practically beat you over the head with the Ten Commandments in Catholic school. But--she really did what she could to do the right thing. And she even protected someone she didn’t know just because we were innocent.”

He’s quiet again, and then says, “She’s suffered a lot for other people that never thanked her.”

Oddly enough, I feel a small smile creeping to my lips at the thought of both Natalya and Feliciano being unaware that the other was completely taken with them despite never meeting once. “I don’t think it’s strange,” I say, “We all seem to agree with you on that, honestly. In fact, Alfred and Amelia seem rather keen on forcing her to stay with us no matter her personal opinion on the matter. And--I agree with them. For the most part.”

With this, he seems contented, eyes lingering on my own smile as if it was reassuring his own moral standing. At least--I think so. That, er, wouldn’t mean something else, would it?

Feliciano clears his throat, “So, um. Nothing else about the case then?”

“Well,” I say, with an exhale that surprises me with its heaviness, “Alfred and I have first and foremost agreed that keeping her safe is our top priority. Not--Not that she needs us for that, mind you. She’s--extremely well versed in taking care of herself but it shouldn’t have to come to that. _And_ we’ve given her the option of going to the police with information on the murder itself, as well as other information on the Braginsky’s. Hopefully with her explanation they’ll find she isn’t worth putting in prison.”

“And if she doesn’t want to do that?”

“...I don’t know,” I admit, “But--considering the lengths she went to just to protect you and your family, I doubt she’ll second guess a chance to help dozens of others that have been affected by her brother.”

Feliciano nods in agreement. “I just hope they listen to her. I’d even go in and talk to them if she wanted--yanno, for--um, evidence of her character or something? I mean I’d also like to punch her brother in that big fat nose of his--but I don’t even think I could reach it.”

“Alfred has a dart board you could practice on.”

“What?”

“He’s, er, very good at caricatures,” I say, “And very good at convincing me to hang them on my wall for the sake of throwing darts at. I’m sure a punch or two won’t do much more damage.”

Feliciano laughs, “You do kinda seem like a hard on the outside, soft on the inside, kinda guy, in Alfred’s defense. Not that it’s a bad thing! Just...a bad thing for your walls.”

Soft on the inside. They mentioned being boring and having a sweating issue, and yet no one mentions I’m too soft. Actually, if I’m concerned about what they said, shouldn’t I have picked up on that myself? God _dammit--_

“It’s cute, really,” Feliciano pipes up frantically, “Don’t worry about it! You’re like a...big scary dog or something that’s actually really sweet! Maybe…I mean there’s nothing wrong with being soft!”

“Is that so…” I murmur, though that’s not exactly the most comforting thing to hear, “A...dog?”

To my surprise, Feliciano’s face turns a slight bit pinker than before. His fingers drum nervously on his lap. “Was that strange to say?”

“No, I--” Well a bit, “No, just...perhaps if I knew the reasoning--”

“It’s not because you drool or something--”

“ _I wasn’t really concerned about that_ \--”

“Well!” Feliciano says, hands gesturing with that frantic air I was well accustomed with, “I dunno--dogs are. Nice. I mean besides the ones that bark at Gino sometimes. Well, no, I mean I’m sure they’re nice but just not nice to cats--not that you’re not nice to cats--”

He inhales sharply, “Am I talking too much?”

“No,” I assure him, “It’s, uh...cute. If you don’t mind me saying so.”

Feliciano laughs, shoving my shoulder. “I’d prefer _handsome,_ actually. But I’ll let it slide.”

I won’t bring up the fact he’s called me ‘cute’ twice now. Not because thinking about it flusters me, and that it’s rather bizarre he’s the one calling someone _else_ cute but then makes a suggestion about himself being called something more masculine, and that it--severely flusters me, actually, good Lord--

I just--won’t bring it up.

“Handsome, then,” I mumble, “Duly noted.”

“Thank you,” he says, scanning my face for a moment, “Hey, is it hot in here? You look kinda flushed. I can open some more windows if you’d like.”

            Decidedly, I am murdering Gilbert for making me worry about normal human bodily functions that I may or may not have an issue with. “I’m fine,” I say, a little more stern than intended, “Unless you’d like to open them.”

            Feliciano shrugs, walking over to the nearest window and opening it with a bit of effort. “I’m used to it being a little stuffy in here, so I wasn’t sure if it was just _too_ stuffy, yanno?” Feliciano says, back facing me as he stares out into the street, “Or if you were just _too_ flustered.”

            How _dare_ he read me like a book.

            “I-I...well it’s--”

            He snorts out a laugh, turning around again, “I’m sorry! It’s just really fun to mess with you. And it’s cute.”

            I open my mouth to protest, but realize that if I call him out on using that word instead of “handsome” as he had suggested, the probability of him making it a point to call me “handsome” from then on was terrifyingly high. That also seemed mildly egotistical of me to even suggest such a thing. Surely _he_ could get away with it. But--as for myself--

            “I can practically see little tiny gears whirring in your head when you do that internal monologue thing, yanno,” he pulls up a chair next to mine, leaning over the back, “Doncha ever just...say things?”

            Not without a proper mulling over. “Sometimes.”

            His lips pout out at me, “Like when?”

            “I--did manage to--”

            “If you’re going to bring up the kiss, I definitely had to tell you to do that _and_ you were stammering the entire time.”

            Dammit. “Well that isn’t to say I’m not capable of doing something on impulse--”

            Before I can finish, Feliciano leans forward in the chair and pecks a kiss to my nose. “See? Easy.”

            I am in far too deep and unfortunately no lifeboat is capable of rescuing me. “D-Don’t do those things without _warning!”_

            Feliciano’s eyes narrow, “But that’s the _point._ ”

            “I’m--very--” What? Sensitive? Easily frightened by physical contact? “Fragile.” We honestly settled on fragile. Honestly.

            Feliciano looks as though this is the funniest thing someone has said to him in years. I can see his face light up somehow more so than before. And then, “I’m gonna do it again.”

            “Wh--did you hear what I just said--”

            As forewarned, he leans over and plants a very loud kiss onto my nose once more. I sputter. “Stop--you--listen, you have to stop--”

            Another. I manage to squirm away at the last minute, his lips grazing the tip of my nose. “Come on, Lud,” Feliciano chimes, “Be _spontaneous.”_

            “I--You are…” I manage, as he leans far too close for my comfort. Suddenly I’m understanding why Ivan Braginsky thought it possible to frame him for murder.

            “I’m?”

            With only a brief moment of thinking about it (very...brief...less than a minute, at least), I grab hold of Feliciano’s shoulders, and kiss him directly on the mouth. Or, er. At least. As. Directly as possible when you. Forget to tilt your head to avoid smashing noses together.

            I manage to murmur a slightly mortified apology regardless.

            “Mmmaybe a little thinking is okay,” Feliciano concedes, after rubbing at his nose, “But that was a good try! You’re just a little too...uh. Aggressive.”

            “Right,” I say quietly, prodding the end of my nose, “Less...aggressive.”

            He gets up to turn his chair around to the proper position, facing me. “You can try again if you want.” 

            I want to, but I would also not like to risk breaking anyone’s facial structure this afternoon. Especially Feliciano’s. “Not sure if that’s a good idea.”

            “Pfft,” Feliciano waves a hand, “Idea schmdea. The point is to _not_ have ideas, Lud.”

            He closes his eyes tight and puckers his lips, “Do it. Smooch me.”

            “ _Feliciano_.”

            One eye peers at me. “I’m standing still, Lud, I’m prepared. Just angle yourself properly this time and you don’t have to worry! Smooch. Me.”

            I cannot be the only one thinking that sounded rather vulgar.

            Regardless, I lean in, tentatively inching closer. It’s much like the first time we kissed. Feliciano leaning up just slightly towards me, waiting patiently. I can feel myself working up a sweat in concentration. The, er, basics of kissing, as it were.

            Slowly, I press my lips to his. He smiles against me. A muffled “Nice job,” rumbles from his throat before he sighs into the kiss, drawing me closer.

            For a moment, this is all I think of. The careful squeeze that Feliciano gives my arm as he leans, the way his loose hair brushes against my cheek, the warmth of touching someone that somehow makes any temperature bearable. Words feel like they could tumble out before I could catch them, but I’m not uneasy. I’m content.

            Relaxed, I drift back from Feliciano, eyes half lidded and I’m well aware I must look as though I could melt at any second. I’d be worried _if_ I had that capacity, which is a funny thing to think about, considering I almost _always_ have that capacity. “Feliciano…”

            He tilts his head, fingers tapping against my arm happily. “Hm?”

            “I really…” I realize then that I’ve started speaking before my mind can catch up, and, “Appreciate. You.”

            Feliciano can’t seem to help but chuckle at this. “You’re completely hopeless,” he says, hand cupping my cheek (no, not that one), “But I _appreciate_ you too, Lud.”

            He leans in for another kiss, nearly sitting in my lap. “I started thinking again,” I mumble before his lips close in between mine.

            “Mhm,” he agrees gently, “I noticed.”

            “I should stop doing that.”

            “Not _entirely._ Just, you know, don’t over think things,” Feliciano says, and now somehow he _is_ in my lap, blinking up at me, “It’d be weird to see smoke come out of your ears.”

            “That wouldn’t happen regardless.”

            Feliciano shoots me a look. I swallow. “Less thinking?”

            “ _Uh huh_.”

            I glance out of the window, noticing vaguely that at least a few hours have gone by since arriving. “When do your grandfather and Lovino usually come back?”

            Feliciano’s shoulders shrug, “Sometime around the evening. They’re usually out for a while because Nonno likes to talk to all the lady shopkeepers. Kinda sure Lovino only goes to keep him from getting married on the sidewalk or something.”

            “I forgot to tell the others when I might be back.”

            “Do you think they’re worried?”

            During normal circumstances, perhaps not. “I’m not sure.”

            “Hmmn,” Feliciano hums into my neck _unfortunately,_ “I’m sure everything is--”

            He’s interrupted by the chime of the bells, clanging off the back of the restaurant door. Startled, Feliciano latches onto my neck (again, _unfortunate_ ), and stares open-mouthed into the doorway.

            It’s...just Alfred. I mean, I understand the shock, but it’s Alfred.

            A very out of breath, ragged looking Alfred. That...that may be concerning.

Feliciano’s on my lap.

“Wow,” Alfred wheezes, hunching over, “Wow, you know,” a gasp, “I didn’t think seeing this would be that weird,” a gesture, “But it kinda is, man. Probably should have knocked.”

I can already feel my default expression hardening back up. “Is there a reason you look as if you ran all the way here, or are you skipping out on your duties just for fun?”

Alfred holds up a finger, signalling for a moment to breathe, which he does, “No, no. Actually--actually--” he gasps again, “Holy _shit_ you live far away,” another inhale, “It’s Nat--It’s Nat and it’s kind of bad--” a wheeze.

“ _What?_ ” Feliciano and I ask in unison.

            “She’s _missing_ ,” Alfred manages, “I--She went to take a break from working because I told her Amelia and I would handle it--and I thought she went up to Amelia’s room--but when Amelia went to check--”

            “How does she just _disappear?_ ”

            “I don’t know, Lud!” Alfred shouts, “Maybe she took the fire escape--? I was watching the counter the entire time--you don’t think they came to get her or something, do you?”

            My mouth thins. I know he’s looking to me for a logical answer in all this, but--I’m afraid to give one. “I don’t think they could have managed to grab her without a fight,” I offer, as Feliciano stands to let me up, “You would have heard something--”

            Did she really...go off on her own?

            “I thought you said she was going to talk to the police,” Feliciano says, leading Alfred by the arm to the chair, “Why would she run off without saying anything?”

            Alfred sits, eyes scanning me nervously. “She wouldn’t--”

            “No,” I reply, knowing what he’s about to say, “I don’t think she was lying to us.”

            He doesn’t think that either, but confirming I agree is all he needs to put forward what’s next. “We have to go back to the Braginsky’s.”

            Feliciano looks at me. “You think she’s gone there?”

            “Maybe she thought she could reason with her brother one last time before she went to the police,” I suggest, “Or...she went back for evidence?”

            The first suggestion is vastly more likely. No matter what Alfred or I had to say to her after Ivan had her punished, she was quick to defend his actions. Perhaps she thought...she might convince him to come back with her. Live life without doing things this way. Without manipulation. Within reason, she could. Ivan was not purely evil by any means. Simply someone who had never felt any sort of true platonic love and affection without bartering for it. Without having to gain it.

            Natalya loved her brother. No matter his actions, I’m sure the notion of putting him away for crimes she believed he had no other choice but to commit was difficult for her. They were born into the system, as it were. And it is, as the saying goes, hard to teach an old dog new tricks.

            Hard. But not impossible.

            ...Speaking of impossible.

            “How did you manage to leave the diner on such short notice?” I ask, “Does Amelia know where you’ve gone?”

            Alfred rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, “Well. I sorta yelled down the stairs that Nat was missin’. Ma and Pops just sorta nodded at me as I ran? Amelia though….actually--I’m pretty sure she followed me out--”

            He pauses, and avoids my gaze, “I may have ran through side streets to make her think about goin’ back home--”

            Before I can yell at him (which is disappointing as I had _several choice words_ ), _Amelia_ swings open the door to the diner, bell chiming once again as she huffs in irritation and...exhaustion. “ _Alfred_ _F_ \--” Alfred interrupts with a shout of “Amelia!”, “ _Jones_!”

            Her hair looks particularly wild from playing catch up, ribbons loose. “I can’t _believe_ you were going to try leaving me when Nat’s _missing,”_ Amelia snaps, “You can’t keep leaving me behind, Alfred! It’s not going to work!”

Alfred pulls at his collar. “...I was just in a hurry, ‘Melia--”

Feliciano snickers. I would also laugh if I wasn’t terrified of being next on Amelia’s list. “Hurry my--my left _foot-_ -Alfred! You took alleyways, you cheater! I knew what you were up to! And you--” Oh God. “I’m coming with you both to find her whether you like it or not! Don’t you start agreeing with Alfred!”

I was not planning on it. “I don’t have a problem with you tagging along.”

Alfred looks as if he’s been stabbed in the back 23 times.  Amelia, on the other hand, grins widely. “I knew I could count on you Lud,” she says, but not without shooting a glare at Alfred, “Unlike _some_ people.”

“I’m coming too, then,” Feliciano says, “You promised you’d let me come along the next time something happens. I can leave a note for Nonno and Lovino, so there’s nothing holding me back.”

That’s a fantastic way to be introduced partially to your--er...significant other’s? grandfather. Don’t worry, _Nonno_. Just gone off to hopefully stop those wacky mafia members that bothered us for weeks with Ludwig! He’ll have me home by ten!

I can’t really argue with him though. I _did_ promise. “Fine,” I concede, “ _Fine,_ just...so long as we figure out some sort of plan in case we can’t just talk Natalya out of this, I don’t have a problem with it.”

Amelia crosses her arms, “There’s no time for _planning_ , Lud! What if they’re hurting her?”

Surprisingly, considering his earlier scolding, Alfred pipes up in agreement, “She’s right. We can’t afford to waste time. You saw what they did to her the other night.”

Feliciano’s already hastily scribbling out a note, and swipes it over across the counter. “We can’t _think,_ Lud,” his finger bops the end of my nose, “We just have to act.”

There’s a very determined sparkle to everyone’s eyes as they stare back at me, waiting for my decision. It’s not really a decision if they’re going to look at me like that. I sigh in defeat.

“Let’s go.”

Damn these people and their intolerable life lessons.

 


End file.
